


A Dream of Spring

by Elysianwonder8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boatbaby (Game of Thrones), Book 6: The Winds of Winter, Bran is not a little shit, Canon-Typical Violence, Dany Isn't Mad, Dragonlords deserve the respect they once had, Eventual Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Eventual Romance, F/M, Game of Thrones Alternate Season 08, Ghost is a Good Boy (ASoIaF), High Valyrian (ASoIaF), Jonerys, My First Fanfic, Nobody is, Not very Sansa friendly, Original Character(s), Other, POV Davos Seaworth, POV Gendry Waters, Prophetic Dreams, Prophetic Visions, Rewrite, Season 6 and up, Slow Burn, The Night King is actually smart, The Prince That Was Promised, The dragons have a purpose, Three-Eyed Raven Bran Stark, Valyrian Steel Swords, dadvos, the Faceless Man of Braavos actually exist, you guys are just mean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysianwonder8/pseuds/Elysianwonder8
Summary: "And when the darkness comes and goes, and spring is no longer a dream, remember your promises, remember your oaths. Remember who to fear when the skies fall around you."Like their dragons, Targaryens answered neither god nor men and the Night King was once just a man. The Long Night arrives with a powerful enemy, yet the blood of Old Valyria stands strong.--A reimagining of seasons 7 & 8 of Game of Thrones, uses the book and show themes to the best of the abilities of someone who hasn't read the books yet.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Daenerys Targaryen, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Drogon & Rhaegal & Viserion (ASoIaF), Ghost & Jon Snow, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 74
Kudos: 93





	1. The Winds of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, welcome to A Dream of Spring, a story born amongst salt and curse words. Was it only anger that made me write it? Kinda, yeah, I needed a distraction and what better way to do it than actually doing something to make other people feel better about the Game of Thrones shitshow?
> 
> This chapter right there will confuse you, I'm willing to bet that most stories start right off the bat with Jon and Dany or something of the like. I chose Davos for one thing and one thing only, he is going to be very important and he is also going to find the first of the dozen tricks and tales that are hidden within Winterfell. 
> 
> Enjoy!! Criticism is always appreciated :))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game begins in the halls of Winterfell, whether the White Wolf plays it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So as you will notice I mixed the last chapter with this new one and wrote a lot more. There are three sections, first Davos, then Jon, and then Sansa. At first, I was going to call it "Winterfell", but it would sound a little too simple for this chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> I do not own any titles or characters mentioned below, they are all part of George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire, or in Wolkan's case, part of Dipshit and Dumbass' own creation.

_Who's in the shadows?_   
_Who's ready to play?_   
_Are we the hunters?_   
_Or are we the prey?_   
_There's no surrender_   
_And there's no escape_   
_Are we the hunters?_   
_Or are we the prey?_

-Game of Survival, Ruelle

* * *

It was hot here in Winterfell. 

He knew he shouldn’t complain, but as he walked down the halls of the keep, Davos Seaworth found himself sweating. It was a known tale that the hot springs underneath Winterfell kept the stones cool to the touch yet the air was as warm as a spring day. Yet, as he walked with his layers and furs, the air felt a little too hot for the old smuggler’s soul. 

‘I should have taken these damn rags off when I had the chance.’ He mused to himself as he continued his trek towards the library. In truth, he liked the number of layers he wore, it served as an armor, a shield from the biting cold the northern lands were known for. When he was up in the Wall, before Jon Snow had been betrayed and Shireen was still alive, he had rather liked the breeze that ran within Castle Black. His black layers had protected him then, the color of the Night’s Watch meant to keep in the body’s internal heat. It was the color of Jon Snow, although grey was his eyes. 

As he walked, Davos kept note of the lack of portraits and decorations. Dragonstone was also a grand place not because of the size of the keep but the decorations the Valyrian dragonlords had placed within their home. There had been a dragon in every corner, a hearth in every room, and windows that showed the salty sea. When Stannis had first moved into the castle, he had expelled the remaining Targaryen servants from the castle and the castle suffered from it. It had been the dragon seeds that knew how to take care of the place, they knew every hall of that castle, every dent and every scratch (rumored to have been made by baby dragons taking their first flight). The walls had lost their luster when the Baratheons hung their banners, every portrait hidden and every secret buried with the late Queen Rhaella Targaryen. After the first month, the castle felt more like the haunted Harrenhal than the birthplace of Aegon the Conqueror. 

Yes, after the war was done he would visit Dragonstone again, if not to say goodbye then to finally show his youngest the castle they have always wanted to see. Maybe, now that Stannis was long gone and his loyal followers were nowhere to be seen, maybe then the dragon seeds would fix the fortress that was Dragonstone. 

The deeper he went into the heart of Winterfell, the more windows were open to let the gusts of wind inside. He was thankful for them, his forehead had a fine layer of sweat and even his beard felt incredibly itchy. Davos passed a massive window looking out into the northern plains outside the walls. The grass looked green, but he knew that it would be covered in white in a matter of days. A chill went up to his spine then, remembering seeing the white crow perched on the courtyard’s railings not so long ago. 

The Starks always promised a winter, and now it was finally here with the Night King leading the march. 

Oh, how he longed for his younger days of smuggling, the pay had been low and the food less than decent. But, at least then in his little boat, the dead and their blue-eyed generals could not reach him. He should be braver than that, but his Mayra had always said there was no use in weighting bravery above the common sense of survival. His throat always felt too dry when he thought about his wife, his love was running their keep down in the Stormlands. She was always a courageous woman, a kind mother with a strict hand if their boys ever forgot their common matters. The House of Seaworth may not have been noble like the other small, ancient houses, but they certainly weren’t animals. How he missed her, but down South meant warmth and life and where there was warmth, the Night King will not reach. 

Even then, his old bones were tired, his eyes had laid witness to many things, and his mind had served too many Kings. He hoped, he prayed to the Old Gods and the Seven, that Jon Snow would be his last, for he didn’t know what to do if the lad were to fall again. He reminded Davos so much of his sons, too young for the world yet too brave to say no to its dangers. 

“Ser Davos?” Maester Wolkan was a large man with a soft voice, younger than most maesters yet certainly sharper than those who served Stannis in Dragonstone. As always, his grey robes hung loosely around his bulky built, his multi-colored chains hidden by the mountain of books in his arms. He had no bulking furs surrounding his neck like many of the northern lords, a mistake Davos had made long ago before he had woken up to an aching throat. The maester may have served the northern houses, but he had never endured a chilling winter. Even still, the weight he carried made him sweat, and with sweat came a sticky heat that could serve as protection. “You are early for our lessons.”

“The King ordered a meeting later today after he finishes his rounds.” Davos placed his arms behind his back, offering the younger man a smile. After the Baratheon Princess had died, Davos found solace in books and writing. It had been the last gift she had given him, it felt so long ago, it would make her memory wrong if he didn’t continue to practice. “Rather than cancel it for today, I was wondering for it to be a little earlier. If it’s no bother, of course.”

The Maester considered him for a moment, a smile creeping into his pudgy face slowly before giving a slow nod. Davos didn’t wait for a second more, rushing forward to open the door. The warm air of the library greeted them immediately, the low candles and half-open windows allowing enough light to read without burning eyes. Bookcases were lined up like solemn guards, the books gathering dust and cobwebs, yet, Davos could never think of a better place to spend his time. He had never been much of a scholarly man, he didn’t know how to read and write for most of his life. But being here brought a sense of peace he couldn’t stop chasing. 

“What shall we try today? The Dance?” Wolkan placed the books heavily on the largest table, the oak groaning in protest under the weight but not trembling. The maester had been moving books all morning it seemed, for each of the 10 great oak tables was filled with books of all sizes. “Perhaps the Conquest? The Age of Heroes?”

“More current maybe, Wolkan, I am afraid I cannot take another story with higher powers,” Davos said slightly with a chuckle, sitting down on the chair closest to Wolkan and examining the mountain of books he had been carrying. “What is all this then? Research?” 

“Aye,” Wolkan picked up the first and blew a gentle breath into the large tome. Its black leather was worn and Davos could see the stained yellow pages from where he sat. “The King ordered for the library in Castle Black to be moved here as quickly as possible. This came in today from Lord Commander Tollett, the previous Maester perished long ago and it seems his books took the damage.” 

“A pity, they look very old.” Davos changed his gaze to the other books on the table, settling on a bright red tome far away from the mountain. At first glance, he thought it was a copy of ‘A Dance of the Dragons’ until he saw the outline of a flame. “And that one over there?” 

Wolkan followed his gaze to the red tome, his eyebrows furrowing before shrugging. “‘Tales from the Lands of Shadows’, Maester Aemon had a peculiar taste for the mystical it seems.”

“Aemon?” Davos turned his gaze towards Wolkan, his mind going back to his reading lessons with the sweetest girl he had ever known. She had spoken of an Aemond Targaryen and of the dragon he had ridden into battle with the brightest light of wonder in her eyes. “A Targaryen in the Wall?” 

“A maester of the Citadel, thus merely a maester serving the Night’s Watch.” Wolkan gave another shrug before handing him a smaller book with an odd orange cover. The sigil of the Martell, the sun pierced by the spear, proud as always. “Let’s start with the Rhoynar exodus then, ‘Ten Thousand Ships’.”

Davos took it gently, afraid it would fall about but opened it with haste. He mouthed the words he wasn’t used to seeing, Wolkan taking the time to correct him when he struggled before continuing with his cleaning. The mountain of books was carefully put away, little by little, page by page until Wolkan had sat at the head of the table. He took out more than a dozen scrolls from his robes, the smaller ones with the clearest sigils put aside for the King and the Lady of Winterfell. 

“Too many messages, in my opinion, Wolkan. Are your ravens well?” Davos said as a jest, but Wolkan only hummed a laugh. It made the smuggler look up, curious when he saw the last few still unopened. 

“Most of these are from the secret stash I hid from Ramsay,” Wolkan explained quietly as if the bastard was still walking these same halls. It had been barely two weeks since the Bastard of the Dread Fort had been fed to his hounds, yet his former servants still manage to flinch at the mention of him. He pushed two towards Davos, one with two blue towers and the other with the red lion of Lannister. “These came in early today, one from Lord Walder Frey and one from the capital.”

“The Capital?” 

“Yes, King’s Landing.” Wolkan motioned for him to open them as he continued to sort through the messages. He set two aside, the golden rose of House Tyrell and the crest of House Tarth clear in view. 

Davos blew a breath through his nose, opening the message with a wrinkled nose at the content. The fancy script was a pain for the eyes, but Davos braved through it as much as he could. “The Realm cheers for the crowning of Cersei of House Lannister, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, more and more titles. The Warden of the North is to be present in two moons time to bend the knee to it’s rightful Queen. If the Lord Bolton of Winterfell, Warden of the North, refuses to do so, the might of the Crown shall fall upon him. Signed, Grand Maester Qyburn of King’s Landing, Hand to the Queen. ”

“The Boy King is dead then,” Wolkan mumbled softly to himself, shaking his head sadly. “That is bad, too bad if Qyburn has his hands over the capital. The gods help the people.” 

“He’s a bad character, I assume.” Davos clicked his tongue, sighing as he picked up the next scroll with the markings of House Frey. Wolkan merely raised his eyebrows, his version of a shrug perhaps. “This is bad news too, isn’t it?”

“One can only hope the enemies of the North drop dead, Ser.” Wolkan gave a small chuckle then, returning to sorting his ravens. 

“It is my pleasure to announce the birth of the newest addition to House Frey.” Davos sighed, closing his eyes and asking for patience to anyone who could listen. Mayhaps the Lord of Light could soothe his headache. If only Stannis would hear him now. “How many more can that castle hold?”

“Not even Walder Frey knows.”

Davos grunted at that, turning back to the scroll with narrowing eyes when he saw what came next. “Hoster of House Tully, Heir to Riverrun, born a moon ago in Casterly Rock.”

“The child of the Red Wedding?” Wolkan looked up quickly, his eyes widening when Davos remained silent. “That means Edmure Tully is living on borrowed time.”

“Gods know if he is even alive as of now.” Davos cursed under his breath, praying more than anything he didn’t have to be the one to tell Sansa Stark another family member laid next to the Stranger’s door. He picked up the Tyrell scroll next, feeling a bit better that it didn’t feel as heavy as the next. “We haven’t written to the Reach, correct?”

“No, but Roose Bolton did before he died,” Wolkan explained softly, twisting his robes nervously. “Before Ramsay killed him, I mean. He wrote to Mace Tyrell in hopes he could buy wagons of grain from Highgarden. They wrote back when Ramsay was planning his attacks, I hid it before he could see it.”

“Thank gods you did.” Davos chuckled again and opened the message. He read it as quickly as he could, humming with disappointment as he did so. “Lady Olenna Tyrell wrote that Roose Bolton would get nothing from her lands even if he offered a pure gold Balerion the Black Dread statue. Quite a lady.”

“The Queen of Thorns, they call her.” Wolkan sighed at that, shaking his head at the bad news. “After the massacre in the Sept of Baelor, I believe it is only her in Highgarden with her remaining family.”

“I doubt she will bend anything to Cersei Lannister.” Davos placed the scroll down on top of the long-forgotten ‘Ten Thousand Ships’. “Mayhaps Lady Sansa could write to her later, never mind the army of the dead, the hunger will take us first.” 

He turned to the last of the scrolls, examining the one from House Tarth before deciding to give the Lady Brienne the benefit of opening it for herself. No need to bury himself in every family manner. Wolkan had finished with his sorting task and had stood up now, a merry whistle distracting him from the burdens of cleaning no doubt. Davos was about to stand up himself, noon was turning darker now and Jon would need his presence in the Great Hall, but he stopped himself.

There amongst the still sealed old messages, there was one held shut by black wax. He picked it up slowly, the weight oddly light and the outline of what looked like lines of a net that had caught his attention. His curiosity got the best of him and he opened it quickly, freezing a second later. 

Wolkan noticed him, eyes flickering to Davos and then to the scroll that he was holding. “Is that the one with the black wax? Those have been arriving for ages, they never make any sense so I just toss them into the fire. The last one that arrived spoke of Slaver’s Bay and some war ready to begin. What does that one say? I’m convinced it’s some annoying little twat having fun with the rookery.”

Davos looked up at him then, confusion painted upon his brow and aging face. Wolkan waddled closer, his face a mixture between dwindling annoyance and curiosity. 

“Ser? What does it say?”

“The Court in Meereen lays bare, the Silver Queen sets her eyes on Dragonstone.”

**❅**

The crypts were as cold and gloomy as Jon remembered. They were more so now that Jon added yet another member of his family into these halls. 

As always, the air was cold, freezing, as if somehow he was at the very top of the Wall. It was also very dark, the Red Boltons never bothered to keep the candles and torches alight, the Greyjoys even less. He had taken upon himself to light every candle and torch he found, the fire illuminating the past Starks and with them the dread he always felt when he ventured down here. Even if he stood in front of a still-burning pyre, the stone glares would still chill him to the bones. 

_I am not a Stark._ He thought to himself as he paused in front of the space being reserved for Rickon. His baby brother, little Rickon with his wild curls and even wilder grin. He would have been eleven, too young, he had barely been a man before Ramsay shot him down like a little bird. Jon had almost killed the bastard just for that, never mind the list of treason and crimes, he had killed his brother without blinking an eye. _There are no more Starks_. 

Nobody to carry the name, nobody to honor the House, not if Sansa took her husband’s name if she ever did marry again. Jon couldn’t fault her if she didn’t, he would burn the world down before he let his closest living family suffer again. As he thought back to the battle, cleverly named the Battle of the Bastards by the whisperers in Winter town, Jon knew he would kill him then with just his fists. It should scare him, the darkness, the anger that rose whenever he thought of the darkness, the coldness that followed that red rage. He couldn’t bring himself to care, anger made him think, and as his hands touched his chest, not quite touching the scars but _knowing_ , knowing it was there, Jon Snow knew he could think clearly for as long as he drew breath. 

“So what is the plan, yer Grace?” Morgan Flint spoke from where he stood by the stairs as if he could burst into a run to escape the dead whenever needed. He was a good lad, Jon knew, a kind one, a lord that had once been a bastard, and so a lord he could trust. His mother, the Lady Lyessa Flint of Widow’s Watch, had sent him to Winterfell for protection after she had named him her heir. She had hoped the boy would serve as both her representative and as a helper to the new King in the North. ‘To keep him sharp,’ Lyessa had written in a raven to Sansa, ‘hee needs to be a lord and who better to learn from than Eddard Stark’s son?’ A noble reason, but Jon knew a trueborn babe had died so Morgan gained his title, the boy knew so as well. 

“We open it and we make sure there’s an iron sword on each of their chests.” Jon didn’t turn around to see Morgan swear, he could feel it and he could agree with it. To open the tombs was to disrupt the dead, and only the Old Gods would save you from the curse that follows. He truly did hope his ancestors would forgive him, somehow, he doubted it. “After that, we find a mason, perhaps two.”

“For the Lord Rickon?” 

“Aye.” Jon turned around then, trying to smile to calm the younger boy. He was 17, no use to treat him like a child. “And for King Robb as well. My brother’s body was never found down south, but a statue should still stand in his honor.”

“Of course.” Morgan cleared his throat, wincing when Jon moved into the crypts before ultimately running after him a second later. “Do you have an idea of where to start?”

Jon almost laughed at the question, there was enough dread in it that was laughable. But he kept it in, no need to prove the late Lady Stark right and laugh on the most solemn place in Winterfell. He paused, feeling Morgan stopping himself before he could crash into him, and nodded at the weathered stone of his grandfather’s face. Rickard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, the man whose cruel death moved the kingdoms into war. 

“My father made sure to bury his father correctly,” Jon remembered the lessons Maester Luwin had droned on and on about. There were no bones to bury, nobody to mourn over, just a hollow tomb. He pointed at the statue beside Rickard’s, his uncle Brandon who stood without an iron sword. “His brother as well, I hope, the sword is missing.”

“I’m sure there’s one inside, right?” Morgan squeaked, knowing if push came to shove, it was his hand that would place the sword inside. Jon only gave him a look before moving closer to the statues. He lifted his torch, carefully lightning the candles that rested at Lyanna Stark’s feet. 

“They said she was fierce,” Morgan mumbled from behind Jon, who only gave a hum in agreement as he stared up at his aunt. There was no expression on her face, no true age, but Jon knew the stories well enough to know. “A She-Wolf of Winterfell, my mother mourns her every time her name day passes. ‘She would have been the bridge between us and the south’ she always says.”

“I guess she was in the end.” Jon eyed the statue again, a heavy dread settling on his stomach the longer he stared. His father used to say Arya looked like her, beautiful and willful, a wild child. The thought of his sister just made him feel worse, he remembered the stories, he remembered the Prince who had stolen her and the Prince who had left her to die. Rhaegar Targaryen was a fool, a fool Jon would have gladly put an end too if he saw his little sister die. 

When they were younger, Robb had made a brave question during a quiet night. It was a day of mourning, Jon remembered well, his aunt’s name day for his father never seemed to speak of the day she died. His brother had gathered his wits and his courage and asked his father loud and proudly. 

_Would you have delivered the final blow, father?_

Lord Stark had retired then, his expression blank yet eyes frozen with fury. Jon never forgot that day, it was the only day his father had yelled at Robb so loud not even Lady Catelyn could comfort him. 

_She was your aunt_ , he had said, not yelling, merely raising his voice even if it dripped with ice. _My sister, a lady of Winterfell, not a form of entertainment!_

After that, they never took a day of mourning for his aunt. Arya was just a babe then, barely a moon old, or perhaps more than a moon old, and his father never spoke of the Lady who the kingdoms had risen to protect. Sometimes, when he was young and had been brave enough to venture the crypts, he would catch his father sitting by his sister’s feet, mumbling softly. After he had left, Jon would always find a winter rose on her outstretched hand. 

“You ever wonder what would life be like were not born during these circumstances?” Morgan mused from where he was lighting the candles at his father’s feet. Jon turned to him with furrow brows, confused at his queer way of making conversation. “Think about it, what would have been if Lyanna Stark had lived? Or even, if the Targaryens hadn’t gone mad at the very end. You think much would change?”

Jon joined him by the statue of his father, a sadness overtaking him as he saw the blank expression the masons had left behind. He had no wrinkles to show passed time nor laugh lines to show his smiles, there were no scars to show the battles he had fought and for that he was glad. His father stood here as a Lord of Winterfell, and in death, he was at least unharmed. “No, I don’t think so.”  
Morgan raised an eyebrow at that, and Jon took pity at his crestfallen. “The Targaryens already had too many enemies, Mad King or not. Whether it would be Aerys or Rhaegar who sat on the throne, there was a war coming, there is a war still coming.”

“The Great War.” Morgan nodded firmly, pressing his lips into a tight line as he stared up at Eddard Stark. His eyes were a sharp grey, light enough to be considered silver. “Was he kind?”

“Very so.” Jon understood what he meant, bastards always know. 

“My mother wasn’t, at first.” Morgan swallowed heavily before clearing his throat and dropping his head in a bow. “I’ll go gather the masons then, yer Grace. It won’t be long before the Keep is filled and the noon darkens.”

Jon watched him go from the corner of his eyes, though he remained facing his father. His right hand twitched by his side, a nervous tick that made him think of Ghost. He turned his head to look at Morgan, knowing the young Lord was staring at him from the stairs. 

“A moment more for me, Lord Flint,” Jon mumbled into the freezing breeze, knowing the lad had heard him. “Ghost will find his way to me when the time comes. Go be a good steward and do my bidding.”

The bastard of Widow’s Watch laughed at that, at ease now Jon could tell before he marched up the stairs and left him alone in the crypts. He turned his eyes to his late father, swallowing heavily under the empty stone eyes. Last time he saw him, truly saw him, he was heading down the Kingsroad. Away from the north, from home, from him. 

_Next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother._

“Hello, father.” 

_I promise_

**❅❅**

Her lady mother always made it seem so easy, her father even more so. Yet, as she paced the halls of her home, with the wolf pelt on her shoulders crowning her the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark could feel the headache growing steadily on her temples. 

The northern lords whined and complained like children, their tantrums at times resembling those of noble children that used to crowd the court in King’s Landing. They demanded furs, wood, servants, and even books from the damn library. For what, she couldn’t say, mayhaps they needed more wood and just wanted to seem like educated people. It certainly wasn’t working. 

From White Harbour to the Last Hearth, the Great Keep was close to bursting with people. Lord Glover had commented last time she had seen him, a snide in his voice even as he bowed with respect. 

“It is hard, I know, my Lady. But I know someone who handled King’s Landing and the abundance of guests can handle everything.” 

It had taken everything in her to not roll her eyes at that, instead, she smiled as she was taught and gave her thanks. The bastard had left after that, leaving her with more problems that just kept growing every time she would see a northern lord. Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island spoke to her about more furs for the people and more leather for the soldiers. Alys Karstark of Karhold, along with her barbaric husband, mentioned the wildings every chance she could, recounting their struggles and their need for safety under Winterfell’s roof. Ned Umber of Last Harth wasn’t much of a bother, he was too young and meek to make his complaints known. The better he learned to be lord, the better for his people, Sansa always thought as she watched him stumble through his orders. He was a child, the son of a traitor and he didn’t deserve to be under the protection of the Starks. 

The older lords were even worse than the children. Ondrew Locke of Oldcastle spoke to her as if they were close family members, and so he expected various favors from her. He had at first requested 20 masons and builders to head to Oldcastle, “for my Keep is falling apart and my people will be crushed.” Lyessa Flint, that witch, even if she was far away from Winterfell she thought she could order people around. Her bastard went along to the Lady Flint wrote on her ravens, and it made Sansa more annoyed by the second. 

It wasn’t all painful, she must admit. The complaints were tiring, but the cold chill of the north made up for it. The lords and ladies were stubborn, but the sight of the pale orange sunset erased them from her mind. She would suffer here, she knew, maybe not like she had suffered under Joffrey and Cersei, definitely not as she had with Ramsay, but she would suffer. Part of it, she also knew, was Jon’s fault.

He had been crowned and hailed King in the North, the second King of Winter in under ten years. Praised as the son of Eddard Stark, as the White Wolf, as the victor of the Battle of the Bastards, Sansa hated every second of that memory. They had barely looked at her, she could remember, the title given too quickly, too easily. 

_She_ had won the Battle of the Bastards, the Knights of the Vale rode for her until their horses could no more. _She_ was a Wolf of Winterfell too, Lady had been sweet and loving, but she had bared her teeth if her littermates pushed too far. _She_ was the daughter of Eddard Stark, the last of his trueborn children, the only one with enough sense in her head to maintain a crown. 

But they had named a bastard ‘King’ and left her with the responsibilities of a Lord’s wife. She was the Lady of Winterfell, she should have a trail of guards at her every step, handmaidens at her beck and call whenever she pleased. She should, well, she should…. 

‘Be Queen in the North’ Sansa paused as she thought it, swallowing down the dark feeling she tasted in her mouth. A chill went over her then, from the open doors leading to the platform overlooking the courtyard. She followed the breeze slowly, trying to calm down her beating heart as it tried to escape from her chest. 

The sound of swords clashing was familiar, for a time it was all she heard from her room in King’s Landing. It made her think of the Battle of the Blackwater, of Stannis’ armies rushing into the Red Keep even after the green fire had eaten his ships. That was the first night she willingly held hands with the other court girls and tried to keep the peace. It was the first night she had wished for the destruction of King’s Landing. 

But the Baratheon men never arrived, and she was left behind as a pawn to Tywin Lannister’s games. She hoped that whatever existed after death, the Old Lion was burning in it. 

With her thoughts racing, Sansa laid her hands on the railings overlooking the dueling men. Some, as she could tell from their armor, were of lower northern houses, cadet branches of the richest one perhaps. She could see some of Ser Wylis Manderly’s guards watching the show with glee, their figures as tall and imposing as the tridents they insisted on carrying. They never removed their eyes from the fight, and Sansa forced her gaze to do the same. 

‘Podrick’, was the first thing she realized, Lady Brienne’s squire. He was moving quickly, using his smaller figure to get an upper hand from a bulking Mormont soldier. While they danced with their swords, neither of them touching until iron met iron, the courtyard watched with glee. She felt tense, fearful that it was a real fight that could risk lives before Podrick fell to the ground with a sword inches away from his nose. 

“Your lady knight trained you well, boy.” The Mormont man, Ser Jeor Devlin, reached his hand out with a smirk. “But you still fight like a southerner.”

“I was born in the South, ser.” Podrick stood up, still trying to catch his breath. “Thus, I am a southerner.”

Ser Devlin gave a sharp laugh at that, throwing an arm around Rodrick’s neck and messing up the squire’s hair. Sansa watched them with pressured lips, eyes flickering to the courtyard to see if she could spot Lady Brienne but it was no use. She was not with her squire, which by itself was very strange. If she was not near Podrick Payne, and not near Sansa, then where was she? 

Sansa at first didn’t know what to think of the Lady of Tarth. She had been tall, taller than Sansa which by itself was a feat, and carried herself with the strength of a warrior, of the knights featured in songs. Brienne fought like one too, a controlled strength on her movements to keep herself from tiring. She knew the dance of the sword all too well, and Sansa knew very well that if Arya was still alive, Brienne would quickly become her idol. 

The thought of her younger sister made her feel cold, detached from her body as she stared down at the courtyard. It had been a little over five years since her family was whole and secure. Her Lady mother, with her gentle Tully eyes and softer hands as she brushed Sansa’s hair, praising her as Sansa sang the newest melody the septa had taught her. Her Lord father, with his calloused hands as he lifted her in the air and warm smile only for his children, had stood watch over this very same courtyard as Lord Rodrik went over his sparring lessons. Her brother Robb, with his sweet smile and fierce protectiveness, who would stop at nothing to save her from the rare scoldings, who was gone too soon for his willingness to bed someone who should have remained in Essos. Bran and Rickon, the youngest and the lights of her mother’s eyes, gone, gone, gone. Even Arya, with her wild smirk and messy braids, Sansa missed them all more than anything, yet, she was not blind to their faults. 

Her father and Robb had been foolish, they were warriors and not politicians, northerners, not southerners, and so they had died for it. They had died for it and left her alone with no family but Jon Snow. 

_We could have saved him_. Sansa remembered the pain in her brother’s eyes as he stared down at little Rickon, taken too soon by that dog Ramsay. For his crimes, Sansa had fed him to his hounds, yet her blood still sang for more. Jon never understood it, the games of the Red Boltons, and his foolishness almost cost him the battle. 

_But he didn’t, the Vale rode for me_. Sansa raised an eyebrow down at the courtyard again, meeting the grey eyes of many awaiting men who had just discovered her perched on the railing. They eyed her with respect, or what a fool would take for respect, even with the blood of Eddard Stark, of Robb, they still looked at her as if she was a fish. 

‘Let them drown.’ Sansa moved away from the balcony, her hands clenched into fists as she hid them inside her cloak. ‘I will survive the cold depths, but they will drown.’

She walked into the Keep, the cold stones lacking the warmth of her childhood. Guards positioned at every door and corner bowed their heads as she passed, mumbling pleasantries, yet, Sansa paid them no attention. The deeper she walked into the keep, the hotter it became, and she was not surprised when the Stark guards were replaced by the Knights of the Vale. The sight of their pristine silver armor made her shoulders drop in relief, smiling in greeting to Lord Yohn Royce before continuing her walk into the Great Hall. The knights fell in behind her, she didn’t need to turn around to know they were following her. 

“The Lord Baelish was searching for you, my Lady.” Yohn Royce appeared on her right, his right eye twitching in discomfort as it always did when he talked of Littlefinger. “He is close to the Great Hall, I am sure.”

“Whatever for?” Sansa tried to keep her voice cool and control, but Littlefinger always served as a way to annoy her. 

“He didn’t say, nor did I ask.” Royce looked down at her, his blank expression dropping into an almost grandfatherly smile. “But Littlefinger always has one or two troubles to drop whenever he seems fit, it seems.” 

Sansa gave an amused hum at that, smirking to herself before stopping her walking. The train of knights stopped with her, attentive as always. “I will find him myself, whatever he needs me for will not be spoken of until it is just him and I.”

Royce sneered at that, distaste clear for her choice, but he nodded and allowed her to walk past her. The knights did not continue with her, and Sansa found she quite missed the clanking of their armors. It made her feel vulnerable, open as she walked to meet Petyr Baelish. 

“Find Brienne for me,” Sansa called to Royce without turning around, her eyes set on the great ironwood doors of the Great Hall. “The King in the North ordered a meeting this noon, he expects you and your leading knights.”

“And will you be there?” 

The question made her freeze, a scowl making way into her face but she didn’t turn around to answer. She didn’t answer at all, more like, letting the heavy silence weigh on his foolish question before the two guards opened the doors for her. Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell, of course, she was going to be there. Strategy or not, the announcement of war or not, this was her home and she will be damned before Jon Snow held a meeting without her. 

The Great Hall, as always, smelled of dust. Servants had been rushing day and night to clear the grime and soot the Greyjoys and Boltons had left behind, but the scent was still here and it just served to make her angrier. She hadn’t stepped into this room since she had first married Ramsay, a fool she had been back then, a fool that believed the Boltons would respect her as a lady of House Stark. They had shamed her, humiliated in a way no woman deserved, broken beyond repair at the hands of the Red Bastard. 

_Your words will disappear. Your house will disappear_. _All memory of you will disappear._

“Sansa.” She hid her disgust as she walked towards Littlefinger, his smile slimy in a way he thought it was charming. It only made her feel more disgust for the Lord Protector of the Vale. He wore his black outfit as always, his collar high and tied by the silver mockingbird. He looked more like a dark warlock than a lord of the realm. 

“Royce said you were looking for me.” Sansa closed her eyes as he pressed a kiss to her cheek in greeting, a tight smile forming on her face as she did so. “What could I do to assist you, my lord?” 

Baelish had the nerve to smile again, turning away from her, and facing the large oak table she and Jon had sat side by side less than a day ago. “I have been hearing curious things here in Winterfell.” 

“Curious, you say?” Sansa watched him as he walked to the table, as he touched the surface slowly as if he was searching for a speck of dust. 

“Of loyalty to your family.” He continued smoothly, turning around to face her as he leaned back into the table. “House Stark, the Kings of Winter who delivered their justice until Aegon the Conqueror made Torrhen Stark kneel.” 

Sansa blinked at him slowly, understanding the message he had been trying to say without speaking. “Loyalty? Loyalty to my family, perhaps, but there is no loyalty to me as far as I can tell.”

“You are the last child of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully.”

“Stark.” Sansa corrected him quickly before he could take a liking of saying her mother’s name like that. “The northern lords deemed Jon more worthy of the crown, so they hailed him, King. Nothing anybody can do about that now.” 

“Do not be so sure,” Littlefinger whispered, the silence that followed heavy between them. “You must say the word, my darling. You know them.”

“I do not.”

“I saw your face when the bastard was crowned, my lady.” Littlefinger’s eyes sparkled at the thought, a cunning smirk making his way to his face once she had shifted a little. “All you must do is ask, Lady Stark, and the Northern lords will follow.”

“I doubt it.” Sansa bit out finally, shaking her head to clear whatever game he was playing with her. “The Northern lords will never follow a woman.”

“They have never followed a bastard, yet…” 

Littlefinger came closer to her then, his dark eyes shining with something that Sansa was too afraid to name. He simply offered his arm, his eyebrow raised in question. 

Sansa looked at him then, her Tully eyes blazing with a question, with ambition, before she linked her arm with his and let him take her out of the Great Hall. They were out of the Keep in a matter of silent minutes, the Bell Tower towering over them as they walked. The rookery was just a few steps from the tower, and Sansa narrowed her eyes slightly at the lack of ravens flying out of it. 

“I must send a raven to your cousin Robert, he told me to inform him as soon as matters in Winterfell were settled.” A lie, Sansa could tell immediately but kept her quiet as he walked her towards the rookery. He had already sent one the day the battle had been won, Brienne had his silent shadow and informed her as such. “He was hoping he could form an alliance with the Queen in the North, for his sake and yours as well.”

“My cousin will be disappointed then.” Sansa clenched her jaw to avoid scowling, a sweet smile on her face as Petyr let her arm go under the shadows of the Bell Tower. “I hope you took the liberty to write about my wishes for his good health.”

“Of course, my lady.” He reached into his robes, a small scroll tucked into his sleeve securely. He was no fool, the Lord of the Vale, and his easy smile hid the dark cunning Sansa knew too well. “Think of what I proposed, Sansa. You know it is what's right for the North, you are what’s right for the North.”

‘Subtle’ Sansa scowled internally before bowing her head and walking away without giving him an answer. She knew her answer, she knew it too well, but saying it out loud would ensure death to the closest thing she had to her father. No, no, she didn’t want that shame with her, her father would spend all eternity hating her, Sansa knew that. Robb, Rickon, Arya, they would all hate her if she let a curl be harmed in Jon’s hair. 

But he was a warrior King, a commander of armies, he was no politician. If the game of thrones were to start in the heart of Winterfell, she would be one that would come out of it victorious. As she walked, Sansa Stark smiled at her guards, saying her pleasantries and watching their pleased expressions from the corner of her eye. She didn’t need Littlefinger to play the game, she would do it herself in the shadows, and she had no desire to die because of it. 

_When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There’s no middle ground._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun game idea: take a shot every time I wrote down how cold it was in Winterfell. 
> 
> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Let me know down below! I appreciate all the help I can get!


	2. The Songs of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Targaryen arrives on Westeros and for the first time in years, the dragon banner hangs on Dragonstone.

_"Settle down, it'll all be clear  
Don't pay no mind to the demons  
They fill you with fear  
The trouble it might drag you down  
If you get lost, you can always be found"_

-Home, Phillip Phillips

* * *

For the first time in more than a century, his village woke to the songs of dragons. They could hear them, roaring and whistling even from far away into the sea, and with it the flames of Dragonstone roared again. 

The fishermen, those who had left in the brink of dawn to use an entire day, returned from the storming seas with images of the Targaryen banner far into the waves. They had stumbled past him, mumbling their praises and wishes into their awaiting families before the entire village had run back inside. 

That had been barely two hours ago, and as he ducked his head out of his wooden house, he knew others were doing the same. Out came the elders, those even older than his 60 namedays, with black silk banners and children running around their feet. For the first time since Stannis had come into power, the dragon seeds were proud again. 

As he walked out into the crowd, he smiled as well, listening to the tales of Balerion and Aegon, of Meraxes and Rhaenys, of Vhagar and Visenya, of the Cannibal and of the rightful rulers of this island. 

“What do you think about this, Uncle Gaemon?” He shifted his attention to his remaining nephew, a small boy, yet an orphan thanks to Stannis’ campaign for the Iron Throne. His father had been Gaemon’s brother and little Daemon was all that remained. “You think we’ll see dragons?” 

Gaemon cracked a smile down at him, ruffling the younger boy’s light blond hair before turning him around so he could look up to the Dragonmont. The volcano remained asleep, yet even it felt the upcoming arrival. The air felt hotter, not humid as it always did, a warmth that coupled with the salty winds made for a perfect day. The children knew this, some had tossed caution to the winds and gone to the pools made by the volcanic rocks. Some of their parents, if they had not been injured, or dead, or worse, disappeared, had gone up to the castle through the winding stairs. 

“That is all we will see, my boy.” Gaemon knelt down beside him with a groan, pointing towards a cave with an opening facing their village. “Legends says that Balerion the Black Dread slept there, that he was the heart of the Dragonmont.”

“So they’ll sleep there?” Daemon squinted his eyes, the lightest of blue, a shade away from pale purple. “But what if they eat us then?” 

“They won’t.” Gaemon patted his head with a smile, standing up again with an even louder groan. He leaned against his cane, the weakening wood groaning like had gone. “Although we can never mount one, little Daemon, some of us here still have traces of Old Valyria.”

“I thought that was a tale,” Daemon grumbled to himself, obviously done with the lessons as he ran to the front of the crowd. Gaemon watched him go with a smile, looking up when he heard the faint roars that had been haunting his village all morning. 

The crowd parted as he walked, his eyes never leaving the dragon statue in the middle of Baelon’s square. It was larger than any men, carved with the magic of the Valyrian Freehold, with his maw opened to the sky. Its eyes had once been rubies, then pearls, then rubies again, the gems always stolen by pirates or Baratheon household guards. Not that it mattered, the eyes were nothing compared to the great fire it held day and night. 

All around him Targaryen banners were thrown everywhere, a sight he had not seen since Queen Rhaella’s body had been burned. The blood-red sigil was everywhere, and he could only smile at the sight. Aerys may have been mad, but his son Rhaegar had taken care of them for years. His Princess, the Martell beauty, had been gentle with them and even urged some of them to seek help from the castle’s maester whenever they wished. 

_The stairs may be long and troublesome, but that should never stop any of you from coming here_

Elia Martell may not have been a dragon, but she bared her teeth like one. Vipers and dragons, they always were very alike. 

“Look!” Gaemon raised his head when a woman— perhaps the elder Erya— called out with a hoarse voice. The crowd fell silent, and in the distance, a dragon sang. 

The sea had become darker, grey clouds gathering as hundreds of ships stretched into the horizon. Thunder rumbled, but the storm was not at fault, for Balerion the Black Dread Reborn flew over their heads. The sun went dark as he passed, the heat of his black scales felt even where they stood in the sand dunes. He ignored them, instead, beating his winds once more (spirals of red and gold were hidden in the black) as he circled the Dragonmont. 

The dragon roared again, to the sea before two shrieks rang back, two other dragons making their way home. The green one came from the northern part of the island, having flown over the fields that laid beyond the mountain. It joined the call with another roar, it’s great green maw opening as it did so. It rested on the crown of the volcano, it’s bronze-colored wings opening like a great gargoyle as the black one continued its flight. The white one came from the south, its tail touching the castle and its cream wings beating with a quickness, unlike the others. It joined the black one in its dance, flying and roaring, singing and chasing after one another, their song the only sound on the island. 

“You.” Gaemon was the first to break away from the dragons, his old gaze turning once more to the ocean. The ships were getting closer by the minute, and there on the beach was a group of men with leather armor. He moved to them as quickly as his bad leg would allow, joining the rest of the elders in their welcoming party. 

The man who had spoken did not remove his helmet, golden eyes peering down at them even from their distance. On his chest laid the three-headed dragon, one white, one black, and the last one jade green. 

“We are the only ones left on this island, my lord.” Someone spoke from the crowd, whispering with old age yet the soldiers did not soften their stares. From what Gaemon could see, their complexions ranged from the darkest shades to northern pale. “Stannis left us here to die long ago.”

The soldiers did not speak again, instead, they shifted and removed their helmets. The leader spoke then, his golden eyes never moving from them even as he ordered his soldiers. 

“Ivestragon se mentyr, se ñāqa iksos gīda. Ziry iksos ȳgha naejot māzigon.” 

_Valyrian_

Gaemon swallowed his gasp of wonder, coming closer to the soldiers and bending the knee before they could have his head. 

“My lord,” He whispered softly to the sands, his eyes bowed and closed as he felt the others kneel as well. “Tell us, who has come?”

_Was it little Viserys? Had the King come, finally, home again?_

The leading soldier came closer to him, his golden eyes drilling into Gaemon’s head before he stretched out a darkly tanned hand towards him. In his other, a great polished spear gleamed under the sun. 

“This one is called Sure Spear.” The soldier spoke slowly, his Common Tongue laced with a foreign accent. Gaemon stood up slowly, blinking owlishly at the man. “Queen Daenerys has freed you now, you and the Unsullied are the same.”

“D-Daenerys?” Gaemon swallowed heavily again, remembering above all the great storm that had destroyed his house 20 years ago. “The Princess?”

Sure Spear nodded, his face a blank mask before he removed his hand from Gaemon and turned his attention to the awaiting Unsullied. From the Dragonmont, the dragons roared again. Only a nod and a sharp order were exchanged, but the soldiers dressed in leather moved immediately. They moved to the small rowboat they had come from, two of them hosting it easily to their shoulders before Sure Spear turned to him again. 

“You know this island.” It wasn’t a question, yet Gaemon nodded quickly all the same. He felt his Daemon shuffle closer to him nervously, but Gaemon only tightened his grip on his case. “You know the way.”

Gaemon nodded again, nervously this time, but steeling himself and moving forward. He raised a shaky finger towards the sharp stones that made up the protective walls of his village. There, hidden by the sharp edges, a long staircase began. “That way towards the castle.”

Sure Spear nodded once, pleased, before gesturing to him to lead the way. “Mhysa wants to see her people.”

Gaemon felt Daemon shiver beside him, but the young boy didn’t speak again. He moved forward slowly, carefully in case the sands tricked him and made him stumble, and with him, the others followed towards Dragonstone castle. 

As they started to make their way out the stairs, the three dragons flew over them, their attention focused on the great fortress ahead. They flew around in circles above, shouting a welcome that could be heard all the way in King’s Landing. 

_Daenerys Stormborn. Rhaella’s daughter_

Gaemon focused on his feet for a second, a smile building on his aging face even with his aching leg.

_The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms._

**🜂🜂🜂**

Storm clouds were gathering, an Ironborn sailor had warned before they had left the ship. With clouds comes the storm. 

‘Good’, Daenerys had thought as she stepped down into a rowboat. ‘Then it’s a proper homecoming.’

Tyrion Lannister was a nervous talker, he spoke and spoke just for the sake of listening to his own voice. A minute had barely passed and Dany knew Missandei would have loved nothing more than to throw him overboard. He went over plans, he went over legends, he even went over the matter of the dragons and how they mustn’t scare the people that remained in Dragonstone. _If_ there were any people in Dragonstone. 

Daenerys had sent Unsullied into the island a few hours ago, three groups to observe and signal if Dragonstone needed storming. Tyrion had assured her it didn’t, but being careful was never anything that harmed a Queen. Twelve Unsullied under Grey Worm had gone in from the south where the great Serpent Stairs began, Viserion flew above them and only rested when the castle was safe. Six had gone under Red Flea from the north, the tall cliffs were impossible to climb yet the taverns underneath them were easy to hide in. Rhaegal took care of the lands her Unsullied couldn’t, easily flying up to the Dragon’s Valley. Six more had gone under Sure Spear from the eastern mouth, where a cove guarded by sharp stones hid a small fishing village. Drogon had flown in himself to ensure they weren’t hostile, his rumbling resembling the thunder the Ironborn promise. 

“They seem happy, your Grace.” Daenerys almost smiled at the relief in Tyrion’s voice, amused beyond relief at how little faith he had on her children even after moons by their side. 

“Dragons thrive best in Dragonstone, Lord Tyrion.” Daenerys offered him a small smile before she turned again to face her birthplace. She swallowed heavily then, clenching her hands together in her lap. Her mother’s ring felt impossibly heavily on her finger, the two gleaming pearls freshly polished.

The rowboat fell silent then, her dragons and the ocean the only sound she was able to process. Dany swallowed again, violet eyes wide as they got closer to the stairs. A salty breeze touched her cheek, moving the silver tendrils Missandei had left out of her crown of braids just this morning. She took a deep breath in, the scent of salt and sulfur something she had imagined for many years, and almost, _almost_ , let out a sob. 

A part of her couldn’t help but think of her brother then, not the Mad Prince, but the sweet boy Viserys had once been. He had crowned her the Princess of Dragonstone, his heir, with their mother’s delicate silver tiara. When he had been forced to sell it for food, he had also given away the last good part of himself. Daenerys shook her head to clear her thoughts, to replace Dany with Daenerys, focusing only on the shrinking distance and her visible Unsullied guard awaiting by the large gates of Dragonstone. 

_When we reach home, Dany._ She could remember Viserys’ whispers as the rowboat came into the sand. Her leather boots touched the storming water only briefly before it was replaced by rough sand. _You’ll see that the sand is always hot, no matter the coldness from the ocean._

Daenerys knelt down then, blinking owlishly down at the sand and touching it with her ring finger. It was hot, warm, and rough even after the waves would beat against them. She almost wept then, trying to remember everything her brother had said in the dark alleyways to keep her calm. Her mother’s ring gleamed under the sun, and in the distance her children called for her. 

_The Gate of Dragonstone is never opened._ Daenerys forced herself to rise up and walk, feeling the silent presence of the Unsullied behind her. Her eyes stayed on the closed gates, once burning red now ruined by the rain and an uncaring household. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Black Fist and Hero move to the gates, pushing them open and revealing the winding Serpent Staircase leading to the grim fortress that was her home. Above the castle rose the Dragonmont, Rhaegal’s jade figure gleaming under the sun as he sat on the edge of the volcano’s mouth. 

_The Serpent Staircase has more than a thousand steps stretching through half the island._ Daenerys walked ahead without her guards, feeling them at her back but never turning around to check. She counted her steps as she went, remembering a sweet lesson in a Braavosi alleyway where Viserys had taught her how to count. _You climb them for miles, each side containing salt and rocks. When night falls upon the island, the dragons living below Dragonstone flap their wings and the sea swallows the stairs so nobody can cross._

Drogon roared somewhere on the island, and she smiled at the sound. A mother could always sense her children’s moods, and her children were just preening with joy. The castle loomed ahead, a stone dragon on every tower scowling at anyone who dares enter it. _It looks smaller than some castles, sweet sister, but it is just as mighty. The walls, the dragon decorations, everything was built by old Valyrian magic with dragonfire and Valyrian steel._

Her children had joined her then, leaving Dragonmont to chase each other above the castle. She smiled, watching as Viserion rested himself upon the black towers, his cream scales shining under the sun and distracting her momentarily from the stone dragon head with its maw open towards the stairs. _The great dragon maw serves as a door, Dany. A great door with gleaming ruby eyes._

The rubies were not there, and Daenerys clenched her hands in anger as she walked inside. One of her Unsullied, Hero, gently passed her with a torch on his hand. The orange glow illuminated the dark hall, the walls of volcanic rock and steel glittering as they walked. She could hear Missandei behind her, mumbling as she walked, a habit her best friend had developed to create a map on her mind. Dany risked a glance over her shoulder, smiling slightly at Grey Worm’s closeness with her gifted translator. 

_And as you walk inside, with the halls closing in you and the heat of the Dragonmont radiating from the walls, the keep opens up..._

And the throne of Dragonstone stands proud. Daenerys paused to take it all in, watching as Unsullied filled the room and made sure every corner was secure. There was a circular window somewhere in the ceiling, light flooding in a circle to showcase the great sigil carved on the ground. She moved forward with a deep breath, her eyes never leaving the throne her ancestors had sat on. Aegon the Conqueror, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, Daeron the Good, Rhaegar, her _mother_. 

“Your Grace?” Tyrion mumbled softly from her side, catching the way her breath caught in her throat when her violet eyes had caught the banner of Stannis Baratheon. 

Daenerys didn’t reply at first, staring at the banner with a blank glare before walking over to the ragged, black wall and ripping it from the wall. It fell into the ground, landing beside the remaining wax and grime the Usurper had left behind. Only then did she turn to the throne once more, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to remember her lessons on Dragonstone. 

_Behind the throne of dragon glass, hidden by the might of House Targaryen, hides the Chamber of the Painted Table._

Her feet had carried there before she could realize it, her dragons still circling the fortress and singing into the opened windows. They were home, the dragons knew, and she knew it as well. 

The air felt damp and old, dust covering every inch of the room. Her council waited for her to enter, to take in the legacy left behind by Aegon and his sisters. The table was a piece of art, Daenerys felt her breath catch as she studied it. Six chairs surrounded the slab of stone, two stone chairs facing each other, and three wooden ones placed as an afterthought. It was inches upon inches of dust and grime, hiding the southern part of Dorne to the Land of Always Winter beyond the Wall. Castles and fortresses rose from the stone, Winterfell, King’s Landing, Storm’s End, Sunspear, all damaged by dirt and time. 

Daenerys walked around the table slowly, trying to calm her nerves the closer she got the chair closest to the opening window facing the storming seas. She laid her hand upon it, eyes froze on the dragon carved from the stone. Her brother Rhaegar had sat here, as did her ancestors for years and years. They had all sat here, on the crown of the Painted Table, where Dragonstone started the map of Westeros. Centuries of rulers, of Kings and Queens, of dragons. 

_And they took it from us_. Daenerys clenched her jaw then, adopting her most serene queenly mask before turning to face her council.

Lord Tyrion, as her Lord Hand, had claimed the spot across from her, his hand laying softly upon the structure of Casterly Rock. His outfit was something that Daenerys had nearly eyed this very morning, the deep red velvet coat lined with a fine golden thread now looked black under the darkness of Dragonstone. Dany had asked him, _ordered_ him even, to shave off his beard and for once comb through his Lannister hair. _You are the Hand to the Queen, not a drunk._

Missandei, with her calm expression not containing the pleasing tilt of her lips, moved the spot closest to her, her clever friend no doubt memorizing the map before them with no trouble. She had touched the high tower of Storm’s End curiously, brushing the dirt away from it with her fingernail. Her dark coiled hair formed a halo around her, golden eyes always sharp with intelligence. Like Daenerys, she wore a black coat with riding breeches beneath it, though she still wore the butterfly brooch on top of her breast while Daenerys had her own sigil. 

Grey Worm stayed as closed by the door as he could, his armor and expression polished to perfection. He never let his dark eyes strayed from the structure of King’s Landing even from across the table. Like all Unsullied, his black leather armor had been newly decorated with the three-headed dragon similar to her own children. 

And Lord Varys, someone Daenerys didn’t even necessarily like, had claimed his place by the structure that was Sunspear. His eyes hadn’t left her all day, watching her as if she was seconds away from combusting. She didn’t mind as much as she should, after all, she had plans for the silk wearing Spider. 

More allies will come tomorrow, Dany gave a small sigh before leaning forward into the table, her hands on either side of Dragonstone. She looked up to them again, feeling her children still flying above and relaxing because of it. 

“Shall we begin?” Dany said into the silent room and tried not to smile with glee as they all took their seat. 

**🜂🜂🜂🜂**

Tyrion loved being Hand to the most powerful woman in the world. However, he didn’t like being Hand to the most stubborn woman in the world. 

“Now that we have the Reach and Dorne,” Tyrion began for what he felt was the hundredth time. Daenerys had long been turned around to watch the sea below Dragonstone, and he felt like he was talking to a very petite wall. “We control not one, but two, of the most productive places for harvest in the Seven Kingdoms. If we were to blockade the city and _wait,_ ” He couldn’t help but stress out, and from where he stood by the Wall, Grey Worm let out a small scoff, “My sister will have no choice but to surrender.”

“And we will have thousands of dead.” Grey Worm pointed out with a glare, Tyrion didn’t take it personally, he looked at everyone with a glare. “Mhysa will not stand for the deaths of innocents.”

“This is a war.” Tyrion shot back, the Unsullied Commander glaring at him some more. The Dwarf of Casterly Rock turned his mismatched eyes towards the Queen, waiting for her to speak up before speaking again. “If we stop all trade inside the walls of King’s Landing, the people will revolt and my sister will have a rebellion on her hands. Is that not how you took Meereen?” 

Daenerys turned her head then, a true vision against the soft grey light coming from the opened walls. Her eyes looked almost blue in that light, perhaps even grey, and her silver hair shone white then. There was an anger in her head turn, and her jaw was clenched as she processed his words. 

“Meereen was taken,” She began slowly as she rested an arm on top of the stone chair, her fingernails tapping lazily against the great dragon head shrieking at the table. “Because of Grey Worm and his Unsullied. There was no famine, no dragged out periods of suffering, it wasn’t easy and it certainly wasn’t bloodless. What you suggest, my Lord Hand is for my people to suffer just because they share a capital with Cersei Lannister.”

“My sister-”

“Cersei Lannister.” Daenerys cut in smoothly again, her eyes never leaving his even if there was a silent apology in them. “That is her name, Lord Tyrion, I would like for you to use it.”

“Cersei.” Tyrion sighed loudly when Daenerys nodded to show her approval before she turned around to face the opened walls. Out in the oceans, Viserion seemed to be fishing. He looked down at the structure he was standing by, Casterly Rock recognizable even with a year’s worth of dust upon it. “Cersei still draws her armies and power from the Westerlands.” 

“And what do you suggest then?” Lord Varys spoke from where he was sitting, his bald head shining under the low light of a nearby candle. The Spider still managed to look dangerous even then. “Storming the Westerlands?”

“Storm Casterly Rock.” Tyrion corrected him easily, trying to hide his grimace when Daenerys had turned around once more with an incredulous expression. “In theory, my uncle Kevan and aunt Genna hold the Rock. They supply my sister—Cersei—with her armies, her gold, her power. If the Unsullied were to take it-”

“Then the Westerlands will fall into the hands of its true Lord.” Missandei was the one that spoke then, her eyes never leaving the Queen even as she spoke to Tyrion. “The Unsullied had taken a city before, your Grace.”

Daenerys stared back at Missandei with a blank expression, jaw clenching once more before turning her own eyes to the Painted Table. Her shoulders dropped, and Tyrion almost cheered in victory before those violet eyes looked up again. 

“Lord Varys?” 

The Spider turned his head, a ghost of a smile upon his face. “Yes, my queen?”

“You once presented yourself as the Master of Whispers in my father’s court.” Daenerys began, finally sitting down on the stone chair with a soft sigh. She looked like a true Targaryen Queen then, with a head of stone dragon glaring down at them above her silver-gold hair. “You flaunted hundreds upon thousands of, what was the term, little birds?” 

Varys nodded slowly and Tyrion furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. He suddenly wished he had a flagon of wine with him, or at least his dashing old beard to hide his frown. Instead he settled for watching the Queen with a burning question on his dry throat. 

“Let them have a flight in Casterly Rock then.” The Queen rested her hand upon the slab of stone, tracing the rising Dragonmont on the map. “I want reports there before we do anything. Weekly, if that’s no problem for you.”

“Any subject, in particular, your Grace?” Varys was trying hard not to smile then, Tyrion could see it in his expression. 

“The state of the people.” Daenerys tapped her fingers again, never breaking eye-contact with the Spider. “The state of the lords and ladies, the food supply, and the number of weapons, weaknesses, and strengths. And above all, the popularity of my Lord Hand.”

Tyrion turned to her in confusion at the last part, his quick mind picking up what she had said seconds later. The most powerful woman in the world, the most beautiful, the most stubborn, and now the most clever it seemed. 

“See it done well, Lord Varys.” Daenerys continued her tapping, the only sound in the quiet room. Outside, Viserion had come closer to the tower. “Consider it a test of your loyalty.”

“And if I am to fail?” Varys tested, and Tyrion watched a grim expression come upon his Queen’s face. 

“I will burn you alive myself.” Lightning flashed in the storm clouds, a hollow thunder soon following. Daenerys rose from her seat calmly, taking Varys’ nod and smile with a grace Cersei would never be able to have, Tyrion thought. His sister was quick to anger, and quick to kill, she didn’t like second guessers nor did she like mummers. 

“I expect nothing less from the Mother of Dragons.” Daenerys smiled at that, and Tyrion relaxed against his seat as the tension eased in the room. Another round of rumble and thunder ran outside, behind it the roar of a dragon. From the corner of his eye, he watched an Unsullied enter the chambers, the golden eyes of Sure Spear easily to pick up on, and mumble something into Grey Worm’s ear. 

“The island was not alone.” Grey Worm began slowly, and Tyrion furrowed his eyebrows at the Common Tongue blunder but not commenting. By the Commander’s side, his twin blades glowed under the candles. “There are villagers waiting for you, my queen.”

“Villagers?” Daenerys echoed, her interest caught before Tyrion could change the subject back to battle strategies. 

“From Dragon’s Eye Cove.” Sure Spear spoke from his Commander’s side, his golden eyes as sharp as the spear he carried. “This one found them waving the dragon flags and waiting for their queen.”

“Really?” Daenerys was standing now, and Tyrion knew he was losing her. 

“Your Grace, we still need a plan of attack.” Tyrion tried to voice his protest but the door was already opening for Daenerys and she had already gone back to the main keep. 

“Tomorrow, Lord Tyrion.” Missandei passed by his chair, speaking softly as she did so. “Tomorrow you will tell us a _new_ clever plan.” 

There was a warning there, and Tyrion turned around in shock but only caught the trail of her dark coat before she and Grey Worm had disappeared. 

“You are losing your wits, old friend.” Even Varys had stood up and made his way towards the door. “Now come along, let’s find you a cup of Arbor Gold and see if the Mother of Dragons truly lives up to her moniker.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes at that, knowing the Spider referred to the dragon seeds and their support for their Queen. Still, Tyrion didn’t move from his chair and instead thought deeply, deeper than he had done for a while. He stood up slowly, small legs touching the ground for the first time all evening before walking to where Daenerys had stood. The Painted Table looked bigger from this angle, and the cold storm breeze helped him think. 

The Greyjoy siblings, while not in their company, had gone with their own collection of ships to ferry the rest of their allies to Dragonstone. They had left Meereen earlier than them, so their arrival to Sunspear was obvious. When they return, they will bring in the Martells and the Tyrells, two great Houses often feuding. With them, the Reach, Dorne, and the Iron Islands and their armies. His mismatched eyes traced the map then, mouthing to himself the names of the regions as he thought. 

‘We send a raven for each region.’ Tyrion nodded to himself, thinking as he walked around the cool slab of stone. ‘The Riverlands are still under House Frey, perhaps taking them from power will ease the hatred of the North.’ He rested his small hand beside Winterfell, staring at the castle with a frown. Last he had heard, the Red Boltons had the North and its lords cowering with fear, Tyrion wondered just how much praise they would get if his Queen were to wipe them off Westeros. 

Mayhaps enough praise to have whatever support those lords could offer. But first, ravens, lots and lots of ravens. 

Tyrion nodded to himself, his clever mind already tweaking ideas as he left the room. He could hear what he assumed was Dothraki screamers laughing from the throne room, Daenerys’ bloodriders had been slow to leave the ships, but the storm raging outside could convince anyone. He could also hear what sounded like children laughing, and that made him pause in his footsteps. 

‘The dragon seeds.’ He mused, changing his destination from a dry and steady dragon lord worthy bed to the roaring throne room. The closer he got, the lighter the castle seemed to have been transformed. There was no wax on the floor or dull shine to the walls, instead, every corner had a dragon head with a candle on its open maw. It was enough light to make the floor visible, which Tyrion knew was a victory on itself. He remembered what Sure Spear had said, about the people raising Targaryen banners, and he made an educated guess that the dragon seeds were quick to fix Dragonstone. 

He poked his head through a hallway, amused at the sight of children running in circles around the Targaryen sigil carved on the floor. Four feast tables had been carried inside, filled and organized with Dothraki and other Essosi dishes the servants that had made their choice to cross the Narrow Sea must have prepared. The people that lived here, Tyrion could tell because they wore rugs and had a clear hunger on their expressions, were very old. It made sense, he guessed when Stannis Baratheon had marched to King’s Landing the younger men and women of Dragonstone must have been dragged with him. When he fell, so did whatever care these people had. 

They were all smiling now, however, eating like somewhat dignified people and even speaking patiently to the foreigners. He could see Missandei talking to a crowd of elderly people, no doubt amazing them with her easy switch between languages. Her constant shadow, Grey Worm, was even in a conversation himself with a small boy with golden hair. The kid kept pointing at pieces of his armor and weapons, so it must be morbid curiosity. 

“Tyrion, you finally join us.” Daenerys’ voice rose above the laughter, her own tone light and cheerful. She was sitting on the steps leading to the Dragonstone throne, a woman with greying hair and a child on her hip sitting beside her. “Come here.”

“Your Grace.” Tyrion couldn’t help the smile that broke into his face at the sight of her joy. It was easy to share, the Queen wished for a home and the people of Dragonstone were the closest she would ever get to her family. He turned his gaze towards the elderly woman, bowing his head in respect all the same. “And my lady.”

“Elaena is fine.” The woman spoke with a hoarse voice, the years surely affecting her. She shifted the babe she held in her arms, whose attention was taken completely with Tyrion. He had that effect on children, they looked at him as if he was a child himself. “This is Duncan.” 

“After Duncan the Tall?” Tyrion tilted his head slightly in question. 

“The Prince of Dragonflies.” The woman, Elaena, smiled softly and Tyrion saw Daenerys beam from where she sat. “My own mother was one of his wet nurses, her greatest joy.”

“She has been living here for some time, Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys told him with a soft smile as she looked at little Duncan. “She knew my mother.”

Tyrion understood her smile then and even gave his own. Queen Rhaella was a friend of Joanna Lannister, and thus a forbidden subject on the Lannister court while he grew up. Even his father, the Old Lion of Lannister, had mourned the death of the kind queen. 

“I see the Dothraki made landfall before the storm could get them.” Tyrion quipped light-heartedly, and sure enough more and more Dothraki bloodriders had been flooding through the doors. 

“They have taken the Dragon’s Valley as their home.” Daenerys gave a small chuckle, amused somewhat at their lack of fear, or perhaps the absolute trust they had on the Queen’s children. “Qhono says their tents will be set up there, with the dragons watching over them. If there is any danger, the dragons will let him know.”

“A brave man.” 

“A bloodrider,” Daenerys replied easily, turning her violet gaze back to Tyrion now that Elaena and little Duncan had gone to try the Yunkai delights. “You have been thinking, I hope.” 

“Hard to do without a cup of wine, I am afraid to say.” 

“Then be more afraid, I would like a sober Hand.” Daenerys scolded him once more. “Any clever plans?”

“Storming Casterly Rock should remain a suggestion.”

“Storming Casterly Rock will cost us too many men.” Her eyes never left the laughing crowd, pleased that at least they were getting along. “More men should be deemed necessary. I have four cohorts of Unsullied here in Westeros, that’s 3,800 men ready to serve, plus whatever remains of my eight thousand Unsullied. The ships will turn around as soon as this storm settles and grab the remaining centurions from where they had been ordered to march to Myr.”

“That would give us around sixteen thousand Unsullied with eleven thousand here in Dragonstone.” Tyrion mused to himself, mumbling his thanks to Missandei as she handed him a goblet of wine. The taste of Arbor Gold was unlike any other. 

“Minus those who chose to stay behind.” Daenerys gave a satisfied hum, her eyes dancing as she continued to count her numbers. “I left the young boys there in Meereen, I will not have them risk their lives.” 

“So that’s around thirteen thousand Unsullied.” Missandei sat beside the Queen with her own hum, her golden eyes striking and intelligent. “Plus the horde her Grace has now with fifty thousand riders and their families. The other odd fifty thousand march for Myr as well, your Grace?”

“I gave them the order to ride towards Tyrosh with a chest of gold so the Archon will be put on ease.” Daenerys rested her hands on her knees, a small smile building on her face when she met Tyrion’s eyes. “That makes for how many?”

“Enough to conquer all of Westeros without any Kingdoms.” Tyrion sipped his wine with a pleased sigh, closing his eyes against the taste. Sweeter than any whore’s cunt, he’ll always say. “We’ll have the capital by a moon’s time.”

“Good, more than enough time to get _my_ plans in order.” Daenerys stood up slowly, Missandei rising with her as the two exchanged a smile. “The castle has no castellan, Lord Tyrion.”

He thought of the grime and soot that had been everywhere in the castle. “You don’t say.” He raised a sarcastic eyebrow and Daenerys rewarded him with a smile. 

“Make sure the people are content for me, my Lord Hand.” Tyrion bowed his head in goodbye and watched the pair leave. Missandei, tall, and Daenerys, small, quite a pair of friends they make. Mayhaps it was a sign it was his turn to make friends with his opposite, Grey Worm would make a great drinking partner. 

The Dwarf of Casterly Rock sipped his wine with a smile, watching the strangest crowd of people eat in peace as a storm raged outside. For the first time since the death of Queen Rhaella, a dragon banner hung proudly on the very tip of the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so, I know that Unsullied math is complicated to follow along, but basically, when Daenerys bought the original 8,000 Unsullied, she didn't JUST buy those 8,000 Blooded Unsullied (which were fresh from battle), she also bought the newly graduated Unsullied (2,000+) and 6 Centurions. 6 centurions= 480 Unsullied as a centurion is 80 men. She also bought the 4 Cohorts of Unsullied (3,200 Unsullied as a Cohort is 800 men) plus the 2, 500 boys and teens still in training (she left them on Meereen here) Plus the 100,000 Khalessar and the additional household servants that could have chosen to go with her (including handmaidens, healers, blacksmiths, and others) 
> 
> Let me know if I made any mistake with these calculations!


	3. Light of the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘It’s mine.’ Cersei smiled into her goblet of wine happily, her eyes tracing the red and orange roofs of King’s Landing. There wasn’t a soul down in the streets, no riots, no screaming, just a peace not even the Dragons had succeeded in bringing. Her crown sat heavy and gold on her brow, but Cersei felt nothing but the lightest of happiness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should really start considering doing mood boards or something, sorry I took so long to update, the BLM movement has taken my attention and I have been busy organizing protest stuff :))

_"I'm well acquainted with villains that live in my head_   
_They beg me to write them so they'll never die when I'm dead_   
_And I've grown familiar with villains that live in my head_   
_They beg me to write them so I'll never die when I'm dead_

_I'm bigger than my body_   
_I'm colder than this home_   
_I'm meaner than my demons_   
_I'm bigger than these bones_

_And all the kids cried out, "Please stop, you're scaring me"_   
_I can't help this awful energy_   
_God damn right, you should be scared of me_   
_Who is in control?"_

- _Control_ , Halsey

* * *

If there’s anything Bronn hated more than a shit smelling city was the shit people that lived in it. 

The people of King’s Landing were rather bored if he was to explain it to anyone. They would wander the streets at odd hours, moaning in pain as if they were ghosts before the Gold Cloaks would turn them away. Some in the Red Keep had made a joke once about how those who wander were not people, but the ghosts of those who perished in the Sept of Baelor. That some head was mounted on a spike the very next morning, as it was what the newly anointed Queen declared. 

In truth, they didn’t pay Bronn enough for all the jobs he had. Commander of the City Watch, personal executioner to whoever Cersei deemed too low for her monster, instructor to the golden-haired, one-hand fucker that was Jaime Lannister, all while being a sellsword.

The capital has turned him weak, Bronn decided as he walked up the Street of the Sisters to Visenya’s Hill. It has made him too used to the smell of shit. 

_Better here than Flea Bottom_ , Bronn clicked his tongue at the thought, knowing that those poor fuckers would never stop moaning about their hunger. Day and night, from dusk to dawn, they revolted, they rioted, all for another bowl of brown. 

The capital was a mess, Bronn imagined the entire continent was a mess as well, but they didn’t pay him enough to care about King’s Landing, never mind all of _Westeros_. All he wanted was a keep, a castle, and maybe a soft maiden for him to enjoy every night. It wasn’t that hard. 

Alas, in King’s Landing he was stuck, and King’s Landing was surely one of the Seven Hells. Following the explosion of the Sept, something which the Queen had ordered to quickly clean up, the chaos in the city only got worse. The Street of Silk had been ravaged in various riots, some brothels have been destroyed (from angry citizens or Gold Cloaks, nobody knew), the Street of Steel has suffered from the explosion and there were always angry blacksmiths and merchants crowding it. The fish markets have been set on fire, both the Dragon Gate and the Old Gate nearly tore down when the riots turned to King’s Landing's finest and richest. 

It was a mess and Bronn could smell a higher pay any day now. 

“Commander.” Bronn had to close his eyes and call for patience the closer he got to what once was the Great Sept. In the middle of the debris, a couple of newly recruited Gold Cloaks were watching each other like newborn babes. “W-we have been waiting for you, Ser.”

“Waiting for me? Why, lad?” Bronn raised a sarcastic eyebrow at the young man, Harry something, he couldn’t remember. “Am I your wet nurse now? Am I supposed to let you suckle on my tit so you could gain enough common sense?”

“N-no, Ser.”

“Then get to the cleaning!” Bronn barked out to the awaiting groups, watching them scramble to find anything to lift as if their life depended on it. “It’s going to be nightfall soon and I am sure you brave cunts will want to explain to the Queen why there are still rocks on the ground!”

Yes, Bronn liked being in charge, very much so. At the very least he didn’t have to wear that infernal uniform or spend his day in the Red Keep. The farthest he was away from the Lannister twins and their drama, the more power he had over the idiots that followed them. Having returned from Riverrun just a matter of two days ago, Bronn was not surprised to see that the Gold Cloaks were beyond useless in any organizational matter. It was almost enough to make him return to Walder Frey and his crazy lot for a family. 

Almost. 

“You, skinny one with the scar,” Bronn called to one of the weaker ones of the lot, nose wrinkling in distaste when the boy practically trembled his way over. “What’s your name, weak one?” 

“Tanner, Ser.” He squeaked like the rats scurrying along in the dark alleys. 

“Like the profession?” Bronn didn’t wait for a response. They all couldn’t be Podrick Payne, it seemed. “Never mind that. Give me a report of what happened since I was gone.”

“Didn’t the Queen tell you all?” 

_Cheeky bastard_

“Of course she bloody did, I am asking you now. Speak.” Bronn turned himself away from the mess and made his way down the hill once more. There was a rare passage of people in the street. Quiet and solemn, ghosts. 

“The Sept Baelor exploded, Ser.” Tanner began, and Bronn was half-tempted to shove him down the hill if there weren’t as many people around. “With wildfire, the people called it. The Queen ordered an investigation right away and she’s sure the Dragon Queen was behind it.”

“And who in the bloody world is the Dragon Queen?” Bronn scoffed to himself, Cersei Lannister sure did like her stories. Dragons, the mad cunt had involved dragons into this. “I didn’t see any Targaryen banners anywhere here, so it mustn’t have been.”

“It is what she says, Ser.” Tanner cleared his throat awkwardly, Bronn had half a mind to slap him. “Her Grace says a raven arrived not so long ago from Dragonstone claiming it had been the Mad King’s daughter who ordered the caches to be lit.”

“I don’t care if a giant came here playing the Rains of Castamere in a harp.” Bronn scowled, not at the boy but up at the Red Keep. How dumb were the people to actually buy her horseshit? If the _Dragon_ Queen had been here, they would have seen her _dragons_ , in fact the city would have been taken in an hour or so. 

Whatever, they didn’t pay him enough to care. 

“Anything else Tanner?” 

“Yes, the Queen says it was her brother who wrote the raven.”

“The Kingslayer? If he can’t lift a sword with that left hand of his, I doubt he can hold a pen.” 

“No, no.” Tanner stopped at the base of the hill, the silent streets of King’s Landing making even his whisper a shout. “The other one, the dwarf.” 

Bronn blinked at that, staring at the boy as if he had just admitted to secretly being Rhaegar Targaryen before he turned to face the Red Keep once more. Even from where he stood he could see the dim lights from the castle’s windows. 

“Well, fuck.” Bronn shook his head, brushing away the boy before starting to make his way up to Aegon’s High Hill. _That Lion Queen is insane, but Tyrion had willingly written the raven….._

Bronn kissed his teeth then, nodding to himself slowly. Perhaps it was time for that raised pay after all. 

🜚🜚🜚🜚🜚

The city was so quiet, so peaceful. 

_‘It’s mine.’_ Cersei smiled into her goblet of wine happily, her eyes tracing the red and orange roofs of King’s Landing. There wasn’t a soul down in the streets, no riots, no screaming, just a _peace_ not even the Dragons had succeeded in bringing. Her crown sat heavy and gold on her brow, but Cersei felt nothing but the lightest of happiness. 

This was always her destiny, even as a small child who didn’t understand it she knew she was going to be queen. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a mother to the Dragons, the wife of the most beautiful Prince in all the lands. When that fat oaf of her husband struck Rhaegar Targaryen down in the green Trident, even then she knew this was her fate. How could she not? The witch of Lannisport had proclaimed it, and here Cersei stood. 

_Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds,_ she had said _. And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you._

‘ _Not if I kill that little monster first_ ’ Cersei tightened her hold on the goblet, letting her hand rest on the golden railing. Qyburn’s little birds had seen him there in Dragonstone, wearing red velvet robes as if he had any claim to the Lannister claim. Tyrion was a traitor, and all traitors shall burn. Only then will they be cleansed of their treacherous thoughts. 

_The fire is the only way_ . 

Cersei took a deep breath, watching the roofs and buildings as the sun disappeared from the sky. Torches were beginning to be lit, the streets empty as her Gold Cloaks removed whatever was left behind from the Sept of Baelor. She had stood here not long ago, it had barely been a moon since then, watching as her enemies went down in the same fire King Aerys had favored. With it came the legacy of House Targaryen, if the dragon whore were to march to the gates, the public would turn against her for killing their beloved Queen Margaery. 

‘ _My son died as well, where are the tears for him?_ ’ Cersei scowled into the horizon, the stench of King’s Landing finally reaching her nostrils. She turned around in a swirl of red, gold, and black, the movement catching her small council off-guard. 

They had been whispering like the rats they were, conspiring behind her back to see who would have the honor to give the newly crowned Queen the bad news. Daenerys Targaryen had reached the shores of Dragonstone, three dragons, and an army of near half a million on her beck and call. _Wonderful_. 

Her hand, Qyburn, sat on the opposing side of the long table, his maester chains an array of rainbow steel. In his hand, a simple raven scroll marked by black wax and on his face, a grim expression as he waited for her judgment. Her dear uncle, the Lord Kevan Lannister of the Rock, had long given up on watching her, instead, he focused on some scroll as if the matters of the Master of Laws were of any importance to her. Across from him, Euron Greyjoy sat with muddy leather boots up on the table, amusement clear on his face. 

“Dragonstone then,” Cersei spoke finally, a scowl slowly working itself into her weathered, yet beautiful face. “How poetic, the start of Westeros under House Targaryen will be where it ends. How soon can we launch an attack on those shores?”

Qyburn shifted uneasily at that and Cersei’s eyes flashed in anger at his nervousness. “I am afraid, your Grace, that an attack on Dragonstone is not something I suggest.”

“And why is that?” Cersei scowled at him.

“Three dragons, my Queen.” It was Euron who spoke, his eyes tracking her like a wild animal. He wasn’t afraid of her, he was almost amazed at the anger she possessed. An angry lioness wild with grief. “Even if we were able to infiltrate the castle, you have the dangers of dragons.”

“Dragons can be killed.” Cersei glared at him, her hand clenching the headrest of her designated chair. “Especially young ones.”

“And I have already started with those plans.” Qyburn cleared his throat and Cersei couldn’t help the pleased hum that escaped her. “Scorpions, the Dornish called them, I have tried to hunt down every copy of it that I can, but…”

“But?” 

“When Dorne entered the Seven Kingdoms, the plans were burned. There was no use for them anymore after the death of the last dragons.” Her uncle Kevan spoke from his seat, his eyes never leaving the scroll on his hand. He looked so much like her father that Cersei was only able to look away before her heavy breathing could betray her. “And of course, after the marriage between Daeron the Good and Myriah Martell, why would the Dornish have any use for such devices?” 

Cersei gave an angry breath at that, glaring at the small map on the table. The newer map she had ordered was just entering the first stages of painting and looking at the small paper just made her angrier. 

“Find those plans, Qyburn.” Cersei decided with another scowl, her eyes not leaving the map. “What of the Reach?”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, and Cersei looked up to catch Qyburn lowering his head. He lowered the raven message he had held into the table and Cersei hurled her still filled goblet in his direction. 

“Those fucking low-rats!” Cersei screamed at the map, her eyes now piercing the outline of Highgarden. “How dare they! I want them sacked, I want them gone, burn them all for all I care!” 

“Olenna Tyrell hasn’t been in Highgarden for a moon at most.” Qyburn hurriedly said to calm her, yet she only became angrier the longer he spoke. “Following the incident in the Sept of Baelor, she and her grandson, Willas Tyrell, fled to Sunspear.” 

“Fled to Sunspear?” Cersei scoffed at that, gripping her hands together to keep herself grounded. “Impossible, Olenna would rather die than to embrace the help of those Dornish cunts. She went to join the Dragon Girl, didn’t she?”

“It is a possibility.” 

“So we take the Dornish.” Euron pipped from his spot in the table, clear amusement on his expression as he watched her nervous Hand. “They have to take ships to reach Dragonstone, my Ironborn would gladly capture the Queen’s enemies and deliver their heads.”

“Now you have the cock to do so? What happened to your fear of the girl’s dragons?” Cersei spat. 

“Dragons are fast, but not even them will reach in time if we catch them by surprise.” Euro gave her a wide smile, a maniacal one that she couldn’t help but return. The pirate leaned forward, brushing his fingers over the outline of the Dornish coastline. He looked up at her with amusement again, his one summer blue eye gleaming with mischief. “I will place a few of my Ironborn here by the Stormlands as quickly as I can. If we are lucky, the Dornish fleet is slow and we have time to watch them pass.” 

“And then we will attack.” Cersei stared back at him unflinchingly, even mirroring the gleam of his one eye. “A few pirates can overtake a fleet that easily?” 

“They won’t be traveling by fleet.” Euron clicked his tongue playfully, moving his finger to touch the city of Myr. “Qyburn’s informant is slow as fuck if they haven’t written all the plan. The Dragon Queen divided her army before they left Meeren, the spies in my darling niece’s ranks says so. She took half the Dothraki savages and the bulk of the eunuch army here to Westeros, the rest is marching for Myr last I heard.” 

“Heard from who?” She narrowed her eyes at him, a challenge that Euron only smiled at. 

“What is the use of traveling the world if you don’t have eyes and ears in every corner?” He replied simply before turning his eye to the small map. “I will give an order to my fleet, half will settle by the Bay of Crabs and await for the Dornish fleet to reach Dragonstone.”

“You will let them reach Dragonstone?” Qyburn spoke softly from his seat, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Isn't it best to attack before Daenerys Targaryen becomes too powerful?”

“How do you intend to know their plans then?” Cersei answered for Euron, humming with pleasure as she thought it out. She could almost imagine it, dozens and dozens of ships burning in the horizon like fading stars. Yes, she will like that show very much. “Half your fleet will be enough to settle things in the Crownlands and in Claw Isle, the Celtigars will be running to Dragonstone as far as their treacherous legs can carry them. Prevent that.”

Euron gave a nod, rising from his seat slowly. Under his long black leather coat, a large blade shone in the candlelight. “The other half will stay here to prevent a blockade as well, your Grace, and I will take 50 of my ships away for something else.”

“Something else?” Her uncle questioned, the scrolls he had been examining long forgotten. Like all Lannisters, his green eyes sparkled with cunning. 

“If the Lord Hand’s,” Euron replied mockingly, a crooked grin upon his blue lips. He looked more and more like a corpse with every fading ray of light, his one bright eyes only growing brighter with madness. “Cannot find a way to bring the dragons down, I will find a way to make them heel.”

He turned to Cersei, bowing down with his usual flare of dramatics. “If it pleases the Queen, of course, I imagine she likes winning.”

“Do as you will.” Cersei murmured, flicking her hand towards the others to dismiss them. The cold air of the night had started to blow and Cersei wanted nothing more than to retire away from the other idiots. “And you shall have your prize.”

“A pleasure to serve, my Queen.” Euron eyed her again, turning in his heel and marching out of the room. The others followed after a silent minute, perhaps waiting for the pirate to leave far away and avoid a slit throat. Cersei didn’t care, she knew men like Euron and how they worked, how they thought, years of living in King’s Landing had taught her that men all want the same thing. 

_Power._ Cersei thought to herself as she walked the halls of the Red Keep, her eyes catching every lion banner and decoration with a serene smile. She could feel the presence of Ser Gregor behind her, his new armor somehow darker under the green lights of the braziers. _And someone to fuck._

🜚🜚🜚🜚🜚🜚

The nights were starting to get colder, Jaime thought darkly to himself. A cold winter the Citadel had long ago promised, a war cannot be won in such conditions. And war was coming, Jaime could practically smell it in the air, or perhaps that was the leftover winds from the raging storm that had welcomed Daenerys Targaryen and her Essosi army. 

_And Tyrion_. He couldn’t help but think, frustrated beyond relief at his younger brother’s stupidity. A Targaryen in Westeros meant death for all, traitors, usurpers, murderers, Jaime knew that Daenerys Targaryen would gladly burn him alive if she ever saw him. Yet, Tyrion still sided with her, encouraging her to come to Westeros if Qyburn’s little birds were to be believed. Had the desire for revenge blinded his brother? Did the drink finally destroy his mind?

As usual, Jaime was left behind to sort of his mess, be it with drunk nights or possible conquests. He had been hunched over a map since noon, still in his riding breeches from when he had arrived from Riverlands. They even still smelled of a peculiar scent Jaime knew to belong only to the Frey clan, sweat, grime, and the metallic scent of blood. Around a moon had passed since he left the Twins, but Walder Frey left a lasting impression. 

The Riverlands had been a mess when he arrived with his army, farmers were rioting left and right in hopes the Tullys came to power again. Riverrun had been locked for moons, yet no siege seemed to make those wooden doors open. It had taken a bit of manipulation to get them to open the blasted things, the threat of Edmure Tully’s decaying body reaching their doorsteps if the Blackfish didn’t give up their place of power. 

They opened the doors when Edmure asked them too, but the Blackfish and the known knights had been long gone. It was a victory, yet it felt as sour as a defeat, for if the Blackfish were to reach the Vale or even Winterfell, he would live to see another day. 

Winterfell was another of his problems, the Black Bastard, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the only stain in Eddard Stark’s white cloak, had been crowned King in the North. How he had done that with no allies, no proper name, or without getting beheaded for abandoning his post, Jaime didn’t know. He did know, however, that the North had to be added to their list of growing problems. First though, Jaime honestly wanted to see how in the Seven Hells those prickly cunts expected to survive winter without the rest of the kingdoms. If Sansa Stark used her connection to the Vale and its weak Lord Arryn, then perhaps they shall last a few moons at best. _The only good thing to come out of the North was that Stannis died up there._

The Stormlands were a mess, petty lords were fighting left and right for Storm’s End, yet the castellan had remained firm that the doors shall not open unless a Baratheon commands it. The news of Tommen’s death had created an uproar in those lands, and now every lord wants to claim Baratheon blood. It was so childish, everyone knew that those blue-eyed bastards were all dead and buried. For once, Jaime was very glad Cersei had called for the deaths of Robert Baratheon’s bastards, if one were to claim Storm’s End then the Iron Throne would have a new competitor, or worse, the Targaryens would have another ally.

That thought was enough to make him smile, Robert would roll in his day if his children ever bent the knee to the Dragons. It was at times like that, with jests and chuckles, that Jaime kind of missed the fat oaf. It was over, of course, when he remembered that with Robert’s death came the last of Jaime’s good days. Joffrey died, Myrcella, and now Tommen, how was he supposed to mourn his children if he never felt like a father? That he could blame on Robert Baratheon. 

“Does your neck not ache?” Jaime lifted his gaze when he heard the door open, Cersei’s slender form waltzing into the room as she has always done. She wore mourning black for their youngest son, a tight dress that went up to her throat tied with a golden lion pin. Red silks embroidered in gold, the design of the lions clear to all, made a cloak around her, for who else would she marry, but a Lion of Lannister?

“Uncle and I missed you today at the meeting.” She walked closer to him, emerald eyes glittering with warmth and familiarity as they always did. Her short hair had begun to grow slowly, but the golden curls were reaching her chin, and Jaime sunk his hand into them as soon as she came near. “It was a naval meeting anyways.”

Jaime stared at her quietly, his thoughts now mush in the silence of her solar. She had closed her eyes, humming in content when she rested her head on his palm. Her skin was devoid of freckles, no blemishes on her perfect skin. The Light of the West, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

_With eyes of wildfire green._ Jaime swallowed heavily, resting his forehead against hers as he thought. Nobody had spoken of the incident in the Sept of Baelor, but whispers were often shared in the shadows. Wildfire, Aerys’ remaining caches had been planted and used just like the Mad King had wanted. If he listened now, he could hear his laughter from the Great Hall, could hear Rhaella sobbing from a room or two down the hallway. 

“What did you decide?” Jaime asked finally, removing his hand and sitting heavily on the empty chair he had ignored all day. His neck was killing him, the ache more prominent as he rested it against the headrest. 

Cersei didn’t answer him at first, instead she removed the golden crown from her head and rested it on the table. She walked to him carefully, untying the tight strands keeping her gown together. She needed to breathe, Jaime knew, not even the cold outside would keep her from feeling too hot. 

“Euron Greyjoy plans to divide his fleet.” She murmured as she sat on his lap, resting her head below his chin. Out of instinct, he couldn’t help but look at the still open doors to the solar, the shadow of Mountain that Rides blocking anyone from coming in. If he knew his sister, and he did, she wanted everyone to know whose name she’ll be moaning and panting throughout the night. “One half will stay by Claw Isle and wait for the perfect moment to stop the Dornish fleet and any other Tyrell scum that appear. The rest shall stay near here, preventing any blockade the girl could plan.” 

“Rather intelligent, are you sure it was the pirate who planned it?” Jaime couldn’t help but jest, but it didn’t get anything but a shift in his lap. Cersei raised her head to his, the golden curls crowning her Queen, her eyes examining his face as she always does when she’s debating arguing with him. “And where does he plan to stay, Craw Isle, or the Red Keep?”

“Neither,” Cersei answered simply, getting up again and undoing the rest of the strands. The red and gold silks fell to the ground first, the form-fitting black dress the only thing left behind. “He plans to do something crazy, I imagine.”

“Crazy how?” Jaime raised his eyebrow, gaze flickering to the servant girls who had appeared by the doorway. They spared him a glance, blushing furiously before rushing to tend to the Queen. “Does he plan to storm Dragonstone?”

“No, no, he says that the dragons would kill them before they can get anywhere near the island.” Cersei scowled at the thought and Jaime smiled when the girls slightly froze at the sight. They continued again, taking apart the gown like it was some complex armor. “He plans on bringing something to make them heel. I can’t imagine what.” 

“A secret Targaryen, perhaps?” That did get a slight smile at least, but her face darkened again within seconds. She extended her hand out, one of the girls hurriedly placing a golden goblet on it. 

“We have to be smart now.” She started, like Jaime didn’t already know. “If that girl is anything like the rumors say….”

“Then the people will suffer.” Jaime nodded to himself, staring at his golden hand as Cersei snorted at that. 

“The people? No, the people don't matter in this game the Targaryen whore wants to play.” She wet her lips before taking a sip from her goblet, closing her eyes as she thought. “The Iron Throne is her goal, and seeing the Iron Throne is in the Red Keep, we will be the first target.”

“She had the power to attack for a week now, and she hasn’t.” Jaime reminded her gently, the last of the black dress finally off and in the hands of a serving girl. “Why? Qyburn says she didn’t have enough ships to carry the entirety of her armies, sure, I’ll believe that. But Dragonstone cannot hold that many people, no matter how close-knitted the Unsullied could be.”

“She’ll be moving them to the Reach, maybe Dorne as well.” Cersei scowled at the thought again, her eyes blazing at the thought, and Jaime couldn’t help but think of his father when she did that. “Her savages will like the heat I imagine. Last we hear, they marched for Myr.” 

“Myr?” Jaime raised an eyebrow at that again, sparing a glance to the servants as they left the room. “I thought she fashioned herself the Breaker of Chains? Is she willing to risk it by entering a slave city?”

“I don’t know.” Cersei grounded her teeth in frustration as she wrapped herself in a red silk robe. A Westerland fashion, at least she still reminded him of home and of the old Cersei. “I hate not knowing, especially when that little monster is with her.” 

“Tyrion—”

“No, I don’t want to hear it.” Cersei snapped before she could begin, her eyes narrowing in anger as she did so. “He killed father, he left Joffrey, he might as well have killed Myrcella, Tommen for those decisions. He killed our mother, and then he flees like the coward he is, he flees to the enemy, an enemy our father fought against. He is not Tyrion Lannister anymore, I won’t allow you to call him a Lannister, _ever_.” 

Jaime stayed silent, watching her carefully as she moved closer to the open balconies of the solar. The Bay below sparkled under the moon tonight, the dark waters painted silver and onyx. Cersei stayed there by the railings, and Jaime could feel the weight of his golden hand resting on his leg increase by the moment. He watched as a knight might watch an opponent, as a child might watch a drunk, as a lover might watch the person who could kill him above all. 

“The North, the Reach, Dorne, the Stormlands,” Cersei whispered from outside, turning around to face him once more. The moonlight watched over her, turning her pale and sickly, hiding her face in shifting shadows. “Jaime?”

“Yes?”

“We will burn them all if we have too.” He felt himself turn cold at those words, his eyes never leaving her form as she came closer to him. “For us, for father, for the children we had, and the children that will come.” 

She reached down towards him slowly, a hand grasping his hair as she gave him a bruising kiss. Cersei burned above him, her skin perfect and soft, but even as Jaime took her to bed again, and again, he could still hear him. Whispering, yelling, whimpering, sobbing, moaning, mewling, it was all he could hear. 

_Burn them all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, in all honesty, just yikes. I tried my best to keep the fine line between fear and love, but is it hard to do with complex characters I didn't write from the ground up. Sooo, if you have any advice, any tips to make this writing journey easier, please comment below and let me know! :)


	4. A Thousand Eyes, and One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran Stark is forced to realize his duties as a Three-Eyed Crow after bearing witness to a queer vision in the far past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one week, aaay, let's not make it a habit because my fingers are killing me guys. Hope you enjoy this one!

> _Can you hear me, can you hear me running?  
>  Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?  
> Can you hear me, can you hear me running?  
> Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you? _
> 
> - _Silent Running,_ Mike+The Mechanics
> 
> * * *

The night sky was painted with lights, Bran watched them with wonder from where he hid. It was as if the Old Gods had taken upon themselves to color the endless void of black beyond the silver stars. There were streams of green and red, of purple running through black, of orange cutting through it all with the same determination as fire. It was beautiful, and for the first time since they had left the safety of the cave, he smiled. 

It was terribly cold, there were no biting breezes and for that he was glad, Meera could get lost if there was a breeze. It had happened before, and not for the first time since the journey back to Winterfell began, Bran truly hated being a cripple. He couldn’t hunt, he couldn’t run, he could only wait and listen for anyone, anything, that came near his hiding spot. She had left him there that morning, her green eyes stubborn as she forced him to stay behind whatever twigs and branches she could come across. 

Bran didn’t have the heart to tell her that it didn’t matter if he hid in the sands and jungles of Sothoryos, the Night King would find him with ease every time. So he had laid back, even made himself comfortable in the nest of branches, and he had watched the sky. He had watched as the first rays of sun broke through the pines, the soft gold turning brighter and brighter as the sun rose. He had watched as squirrels ran and chattered above the tree he was leaning against, the sound the only thing keeping him from sinking into paranoia. 

Occasionally, he could hear the birds far above, crows and ravens, and he couldn’t help but feel they were mocking him. A boy who was supposed to use his gift for good, who would ruin whatever shield the rest of humanity had. Bran feared, he feared yet he knew, that if he crossed the gates of the Wall, the Night King would follow like a bloodhound on a scent. Even from he laid in safety, leagues away from wrights and the White Walkers, leagues away from _him_ , Bran could still feel his eyes. 

_How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have?_

Bran shivered slightly, tugging the pelt of stitched together rabbit fur closer to his neck. Meera would be back soon, Bran gathered as he watched the lights disappear beyond the northern mountains. They’ll need to go faster, Bran was needed in Winterfell and Meera was the only way Greywater Watch would know what was to come. 

“Bran?” He turned his neck, giving out a small sigh of relief at the sight of her light furs. His shoulders dropped, he didn’t even realize how tense he had gone until she was removing the twigs from on top of him and smiling at him as she loved him. Like a fool, he smiled back. 

“How was your day then?” She dumped four dead rabbits on his lap and he immediately got to work. He took the knife that she had given him (“Just in case”, she had said) and began skinning the large grey one. “Not too much trouble, right?” 

“None at all, it’s been quiet,” Bran admitted softly, his breath turning white before him yet he didn’t raise his head to look at her. He could sense her as she walked, her warmth a rival to a thousand fires. 

“And have you….?” She didn’t finish her question, and Bran did look up at that, twisting his neck up to watch her as she pushed the sled. 

“No, not today.” He returned back to the rabbit, hearing her thoughtful hum as she worked around him. Meera was always great at that, enjoying the silence when they both knew what laid ahead. Bran couldn’t see her from where she was kneeling down, but he knew she was still humming as she lit the fire. “I didn’t think warging was going to be any good when I am all alone out here.”

Meera nodded to herself, sitting on the ground as she warmed her still gloved hands. Bran watched her, the rabbits were forgotten on his lap. Her hair had been growing since they left the cave, she didn’t think much to cut it now that they had to run as much as they could. From where he sat, he could see the fire reflecting on her eyes, the moss green turning brown the longer he stared. 

“You should do it now.” She mumbled into the fire, turning to face him when he didn’t speak. “We are 2, maybe 3 days from the Wall, those rabbits should last us enough for the way. We won’t be stopping much.”

“Trying to get rid of me that fast?” Bran gave a small smile, teasing even when Meera shot him a look. 

“You’re the one that needs to go over the Wall, Brandon Stark.” She said as she turned to the fire, her stubbornness obvious. “The old man didn’t say if you needed to cross a tunnel or be tossed down.” 

“I could always fly.” Meera rolled her eyes at the jest, but Bran knew she was hiding a smile. “2 to 3 days?”

“Maybe less.” Meera clicked her tongue, picking up the rabbit from his lap and continuing herself. “I went far south today to hunt, I could see the Wall from deep in the woods when I looked up. We aren’t far from Castle Black, I wager.”

Bran gave a sigh at that, turning his eyes up into the sky. There were no more colorful lights, just stars, and a silver crescent moon. He thought back to his time on the cave, to where it was damp and dark with no source of light. Summer had been his companion through the darkness whenever the memories of the past would let him go, but he was not here anymore and neither was Hodor. It was just him, Meera, and a thousand and one memories.

“I won’t make it to Winterfell to see Jon.” Bran pulled a face as he thought, his nose wrinkling as he stared up at the stars. The outlines and the cries of crows filled the air, and he knew he had to join them soon. “Daenerys Targaryen is in Dragonstone.”

“Good for her,” Meera commented as she roasted the rabbit. “What does she have to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Bran mumbled into the sky. “But the Three-Eyed crow said I should watch her.”

“And have you?” 

“She’s too far away.” He turned his gaze down to Meera, smiling in thanks when she handed him his share of the rabbit. “And I do not know her enough to see her even then.”

“That man filled your head with riddles,” Meera grumbled into her rabbit, chewing thoughtfully before moving closer to him. She draped a pelt over her shoulders, leaning her head back into Bran’s shoulders as she also stared at the sky. “I hope you see her soon.” 

“So do I.” Bran swallowed heavily, staring at her face with a light smile. His eyes traced her nose, her cheekbones, her lips before he turned them up to the stars again. “I’ll go now, Meera.”

“And here I’ll stay.” She mumbled softly, the sound almost disappearing in the breeze that swept. The fire in front of them trembled, cowering from the cold before settling into a smaller frame. Bran watched it thoughtfully, hearing the cracks of the splintering wood before closing his eyes and allowing his mind to go blank. 

  
  


_The wind that hit his face was cool, summer air that Old Nan would describe, for only a summer breeze would smell of dew and lavender. When Bran opened his eyes, he expected to see his old companion beside him, the old three-eyed crow was no more, yet, imagining near made him feel less lonely. Brynden Rivers had given up his life to protect him, and for that, Bran will always turn his gaze to the side with respect._

_He was standing in a garden, or perhaps a courtyard, with vibrant green trees and sweet-smelling flowers. As he looked up, he saw the afternoon sky above it all, the bright blue striking against the rust-red bricks he could see. The Red Keep, he knew immediately, looking down at his feet to make sure he was in fact standing before he continued forward. Bran walked the trail left on the ground, the stones on the ground red and black, the colors of House Targaryen._

_Above his head, a great black banner danced lazily in the wind, the three-headed dragon fierce. The past, or the future, he couldn’t necessarily tell, nor did he necessarily care. The old crow had once said to trust the powers of sight, and this time he will._

_“And then what happened next, Uncle Aemon?” Bran turned his head when he heard a child’s voice, his eyes finding a strange pair sitting on a bench. A child and a grown man, both with striking silver hair and pale skin, yet the child had the mark of a raven upon his face. Brynden Rivers, Bran knew he could be no older than 7._

_“Well, Visenya lifted her sword and cut his cheek before they all could even blink.” The older man continued, his golden armor marking him as part of the Kingsguard Bran had wanted to join when he was a child. On his side, a familiar sword was placed on the bench for the child to see. “From there on, Aegon let her form whatever she pleased, his trust was that deep in his sister.”_

_“Who will carry Dark Sister after you?” Brynden reached for the sword with a grin, the black cloak he wore barely hiding it from view. “Daeron?”_

_“No, no, your brother Daeron doesn’t have any use for this old thing.” Bran watched as the knight (Aemon the Dragonknight, if his lessons with Maester Luwin served him right) smiled softly down at the sword. “Perhaps I’ll give it to you.”_

_“Truly?” Brynden lifted his head immediately, his mouth opened with awe. The hood fell to his shoulders and Bran watched as Aemon placed it once over the young child’s head. “You’ll think mam would let me?”_

_“Well, obviously you’ll be a Kingsguard, right?” There was a jest there, yet Brynden was too young to see it. Bran watched as he nodded quickly, reaching for the sword and clutching the gold dragon head pommel. “I’ll be leaving soon for the Stormlands.”_

_“Can I come with you?” The question was expected, and this time even Bran smiled at the young child. His eyes flickered to the tall knight, knowing with light sorrow he would not return from the Stormlands. Aemon the Dragonknight, who defended the same brother who hated him until his dying breath._

_“No, no, then how would you expect to train?” Aemon scolded gently, smiling as Brynden pouted at the thought. “You train day and night, and when I return, I’ll be sure to teach you everything I know.”_

_“Everything?” Brynden stood up from where he sat, eyes wide as he stared at his uncle. “Even magic?”_

_“For that I would have to know magic, silly thing.” Aemon poked his belly with a chuckle before looking over Brynden’s shoulders. “Look now, where are your manners?”_

_Bran followed his gaze as best as he could, recognizing who he believed was Queen Naerys Targaryen. She really was a fragile woman, pale and thin, dressed in white silks and a veil to protect her from the sun, but Bran could see the gentle smile on her face when she saw little Brynden and Aemon._

_It felt like an intrusion, and Bran looked around in confusion to see if he had been missing anything else. Visions were not meant to be playthings, nor something to spy with on one’s childhood. He thought back to his latest one, a day or two before this one, of his Aunt Lyanna and her conversation with what he assumed was Arthur Dayne. She had been mumbling something Bran couldn’t hear, her hand on top of the small swell in her stomach. Just like this vision, it didn’t make much sense._

_“Hello your Grace.” Brynden had bowed his head, polite and respectful as a noble child. Bran supposed he had been raised that way like all the Great Bastards._

_“Little Brynden, your mother misses you.” Queen Naerys spoke, her voice a gentle whisper as she touched the boy’s covered head. “Go on now, you’ll miss your lessons with the Maester. Daenerys is waiting for you.”_

_“I swear, that old man only talks about Dorne.” Brynden hopped down from the marble bench, grumbling the entire way into the Keep. Bran watched him go, waiting for the vision to change any second now, but alas, he remained in the courtyard still._

_“What have you been telling the boy?” Naerys sat beside her brother, giving a small breath of relief. Bran caught the swell on her stomach, his eyes darting between Aemon and Naerys in confusion. He could dimly remember his lessons, but he could recall the rumors spread by King Aegon the Unworthy. Somehow, as he watched the pair, he could see why Daeron II had been called Falseborn._

_“The visions that I see, sweet sister.” Aemon gave her a small smile, shedding his sword with a smooth swipe. His eyes were a deep purple as he looked at the fragile Queen. “What of you?”_

_“What do I tell the boy? I am not his mother.” Naerys lifted her veil slowly, pale hands shaking and shining under the setting sun. The breeze from before picked up again, the scent of lavender even more present as the Queen turned her violet eyes on her brother._

_“Naerys.”_

_“They do not count as visions.” She spoke as if this was a common conversation, reaching down to pick up a red rose from the nearby bush. “Delusions, perhaps.”_

_“That’s Aegon talking, not you.” There was a hint of anger in the Dragonknight’s voice and Bran shifted closer, interested at what could be said. Had the Old Gods laid a guiding hand and helped him see this?_

_“Aegon might be right about this.” Naerys twirled the rose on her hand, her eyes dazed as she stared at the flower. “I saw dragons last night.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Three, as always.” Naerys gave a small breath, bringing the rose closer to her nose to smell it. Bran could see the red so clearly on her, the Targaryen Queen was all white and blue, the Targaryen red looked better on her and her sickly complexion. “One jade, one onyx, and one pale ivory.”_

_“Fancy yourself a modern Daenys the Dreamer?” Aemon teased a bit, earning a smile from the Queen. “Well, what did these dragons say? Did they offer you the answer to why our brother is such a wanker?”_

_“Hush.” Naerys scolded with more strength that Bran could ever think she could hold, though Aemon only smiled at it. “They were whispering to me.”_

_“Whispers?” Now Aemon looked close to laughing, though he turned his head to hide it well. Bran froze when the indigo gaze fell on him, knowing Aemon couldn’t see him but still fearing all the same. “What did they say?”_

_“Burn them all.” Bran flinched at the same time as the Queen did, his eyes zeroing into the ruby-red blood staining her pale finger. Naerys didn’t mind it, placing the finger within her lips with a small sigh._

_“Creative.” Was all Aemon said, shifting in clear discomfort before slowly standing up. He stared down at the Queen for a second, his eyes apologetic and Bran turned away from it all the same. He could recognize that look very well, Bran had looked at Meera like that for moons now, eyes full of devotion and pure love. “I should retire for the evening, the Stormlands will be a headache, I can feel it.”_

_“Just be careful,” Naerys answered simply, placing her veil back as she raised to her feet. She placed her hand on her stomach again, smiling softly up at Aemon. “I will miss you, brother. Come back soon, alive if you please.”_

_“I’ll see what I could do.” Bran feared he would kiss her then, but the Dragonknight just bowed deeply and headed back inside. Again, he waited for the vision to shift, and again, he still remained in the same courtyard._

_The Queen was staring up at the sky with wonder, her gentle face hidden by the white veil but Bran could tell she was crying when a deep shiver went through her body. He thought back to what she had said, a jade, an onyx, and pale ivory, three dragons. Daenerys Targaryen had woken three dragons._

_“The dragon has three heads. Winter is coming. The dragon has three heads.” The lavender breeze whispered on his ear, over and over as he watched the silver queen before him. Blood still gushed from her finger, and with horror he watched as more and more blood pooled around her feet, staining the white gown she wore. “The dragon has three heads. Three, three, three. Winter is coming.”_

_A crow cawed in the distance, and Bran forced himself to open his eyes._

“Oh good, you’re up.” Meera was standing in front of him, the ropes to his sled on her hands and the Wall stretching behind her. For a moment, he struggled to see, his eyes blurred and his breathing shallow as he regained his sense. “It’s been nearly a day, I was getting worried.”

“W-what?” He forced himself to speak, raising his eyes to stare at her. His eyes found once more the Wall behind her, his breathing getting heavier as he thought. “No, no, wait, wait.” 

Meera paused at that, turning critical eyes towards him and her eyebrows furrowing in worried. “What do you mean, no?” 

“I…” Bran blinked slowly up at her, swallowing heavily once more before turning his eyes towards the Wall. They were still well hidden inside the forest, the brothers of the Night’s Watch couldn’t have spotted them already. “I need to find a weirwood tree.”

“What?!” Meera narrowed her eyes then, coming closer to check his temperature. “Are you ill? Or just mad? We need to go over the other side before the dead men arrive and rip us apart, Bran. We need to go, now!”

“I can’t.” Bran shook his head stubbornly, rubbing his aching eyes with his fingers as he struggled to think back on what he had seen. What he had felt. “I need more power, I need to see something.”

“You have been gone for hours, Bran! What more is there to see?!”

“The dragon has three heads,” Bran mumbled to himself, turning his eyes up to stare at Meera, his mind set on the matter. “I need to see.” 

“You are scaring me, Bran.” Meera eyed him again, her moss green eyes fearful as she examined his face. Bran forced a blank expression on his face then, swallowing heavily as he did so, now was not the time for emotions. He needed to see, he needed to see what was so important. 

“You go,” Bran spoke softly, pushing her hand away before she could touch his face. “Go to the Wall and tell the Lord Commander where I am. Get to Greywater Watch as fast as you can, don’t even stop in Winterfell.”

“What? Why?!” There was a betrayed look to her face, green eyes hurt as she took him as if he was but a stranger spouting nonsense. Perhaps he was, Bran thought bitterly, the boy she had known had died in that cave with Summer and Hodor. 

“Your father needs to be there.” Bran pushed her arm again, urging her to forward to the looming Wall. “Go, go please. You need to go, they’ll take me to their heart tree, but you need to get out of here.” 

“Why?” Meera asked softly, betrayal in her face. 

The mark on his arm, the one he had kept hidden and even forgotten about, the hand of the Night King, burned the longer he thought. “He’s coming, soon, I can feel him, Meera, he’s watching me. If I cross that Wall, who's to say that whatever magic is holding it won’t make it fall apart?”

“You need to get to Winterfell.” Meera pleaded, smacking his hand away, and cradling his face in her hands. “Bran please, this is madness.”

“Maybe.” Bran murmured softly, staring at her with wide Tully blue eyes. “But I need you to be safe. Please.”

“Bran-”

“Please.” He stressed out again, pleading himself as he did so. Her hands fell from his face after a moment, eyes defeated as she let go of the sled’s rope and started to run towards the Wall. Bran let out a crushing breath as he watched her leave, turning his eyes up to the sky again and listening, listening for the horns to blare in the distance. 

_The dragon has three heads._

_Winter is coming._

_Three, three, three_

In the distance, a horn blew and Bran forced himself to close his eyes and open his one thousand, and one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A question for the masses: 
> 
> -Why do you think I chose Naerys and Aemon?


	5. A Journey No One Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry is forced to make a choice between peace and adventure, Sam meets a mysterious ally, and Arya Stark returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the "Meet the character!" chapters, after this, it will be getting a little more heated so keep an eye out for Chapter 6, "The King in the North"

> _"Run fast for your mother run fast for your father  
>  Run for your children for your sisters and brothers  
> Leave all your love and your longing behind you  
> Can't carry it with you if you want to survive"_
> 
> - _Dog Days_ , Florence + The Machine
> 
> * * *

If there was anything constant in his life as of now, it was the bloody autumn storms. Gendry would spend hours upon hours inside the forge, his achingly small forge, yet he could still hear the chaos of the storms outside. To himself, while he was seconds from sleep at night, he couldn’t help but mumbled a sarcastic “to the aptly named Stormlands, long may they stand.”

He regretted his choice to remain in the blasted region sometimes, mainly when the winds threatened to take the roof of his small, humble shack, or when someone died outside by a falling tree pushed by the rain. But at the very least, his small village on the outskirts of the Bronzegate was not King’s Landing, thus already grander and safer. Mainly safer, he lived better in the Street of Steel with Tobho Mott and his occasional abuse. 

But King’s Landing was a rat’s nest, for comparing it to a ticking wildfire cache would do no good. The news of the Sept of Baelor had reached the Stormlands quickly, of course, it did, Tommen Baratheon had died seconds after the death of his Queen, and the lands were a mess due to it. All the royal guards, anyone who could have a slim chance at recognizing him, had moved down to Storm’s End to defend the keep from Cersei and whatever other plans she could come up with. Which left Gendry safe, warm, and bored. 

He sounded like a brat, sure, but one would think that if you had been named the last known (unknown who knows how many there truly are) bastard son of the late Robert Baratheon, a sense of destiny would come as well. So far nothing, he was stuck in a small village that had a death every other day and rarely anything to fix. At this rate, he would even consider moving back to King’s Landing, maybe Queen Cersei had given up on her massacre of blue-eyed babes and he could find Tobho Mott again. 

_ If he survived _ . He couldn’t help but think bitterly, laying on his small cot as he stared up at the ceiling. Gendry wondered if this is what Ser Davos had hoped for him once he let him escape Dragonstone, he wondered if the old knight, a man sworn to his only living uncle at the time, had hoped Gendry would waste away in a small village somewhere away from trouble. Somehow, he doubted Davos Seaworth would think him stupid enough to travel into the Stormlands for safety. 

_ Stupid bull. _ Gendry couldn’t help the fond smile, his mind’s voice sounding eerily similar to Arya Stark of Winterfell. The girl he had left, and with that his smile fell again. 

He had to, he knew he had to leave her, it was the only way to separate himself from her. A part of him had hoped for the longest that she would forget about him, he had abandoned her, it was only fair if her mind abandoned him as well. Arya had to return back to her family at some point, it was no use to tie her down to him, she was a lady of the north, a daughter of a great house meant to...to… 

“Bloody hell, what do noblemen even do,” Gendry grumbled into the humid air, closing his eyes as the storm rolled outside. His father had been a King, his uncles had been Kings (for a time), his supposed brothers as well, or at least the realm believed them to be his brothers. The Lannister hair, Stannis had once told him with a glare, is no Baratheon black. Whatever that meant. 

Living in the Stormlands, at least, brought him a sense of belonging. Most of the people in his village had eyes similar to his, a bright blue similar to the Narrow Sea, and while their hairs weren’t black, it was still wild if not cut close to the head. Half of them came from a line of bastards, the people of the Stormlands loved to gossip above all, it was a sailor’s past time, as they had put it before. 

Still, Bronzegate was in the middle of everything, yet in the middle of nothing. Storm’s End was only a few leagues away, King’s Landing a week’s ride, Dragonstone a little bit longer than that. There was gossip from every corner, but there were also eyes to watch out for. He had learned little about a nobleman’s courtesy here in a rundown village, but he had learned from whom he should be hiding at the very least. 

Cersei and Qyburn had been a start, then Lord Varys’ little children, and then even some Vale soldiers dressed in poor robes. The Vale knights, thankfully, were awful at hiding in plain sight and didn’t notice he was the person they were supposed to watch. 

Last he had heard from the village’s whisperers, the Dragon Queen had reached Westeros, a girl named Stormborn that brought a storm with her ships. Gendry remembered the day only because his roof had fallen off, and it had taken almost two to fix it back into place. If the Targaryen Queen had brought in the storm, as the old crones say, she owed him a bloody roof. 

_ And your father owed her a throne, and a castle, and a brother, and a mother, and- _

Gendry could only hope that if the time came to die for his father’s blood, he could at least die cursing the man out. 

That night, while the winds and the rain created a monstrous song, he dreamt of a big forge as he always did. It was wide and dark, but it wasn’t damp, it was warm and the walls seemed to pulse as if the dark walls had a heartbeat. On his working table laid a sword, still red from the fire, yet the swirling Valyrian steel was visible even with the heat. Behind him, the pulse got louder, a soft impatient grumble making him freeze in place. 

He continued to stare at the sword, waiting for it to cool as the grumbles got louder, a question on them as the heartbeats got closer. It felt hotter now, his forehead was drenching and if he could squint into the doorway of the forge, he swore he saw a river of lava somewhere there. Gendry gave a shaky breath, refusing to remove his eyes from the sword as something moved behind him. The forge shook with it, the grumbles turning into a hiss as it rested near him, whatever it was radiating a scorching heat. He moved to turn around, only to move his head to see, but his eyes found only warm darkness that had fallen into silence. 

Gendry continued to stare, waiting as he had waited for the sword to cool, his eyes searching for anything he could have missed at first. The pulse had not stopped, it still made his chest shook with every thud, and it took him some time to realize it was only his own heartbeat in the forge. 

Nerves, merely nerves. He swallowed, his mouth dry as he forced himself to look at the sword again. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a single red eye watching. 

When he woke up, the storm had settled outside even if his heart hadn’t, the images of his dream, his nightmare rather, fleeing his mind the longer he thought of it. He stood up with a groan, his head thudding at the action. A breath, a thud, a breath, a thud, a breath, a thud, one, two, three….

“Gendry?! Are you in there lad?” Someone, from the raspy voice of one of the elders, was close to breaking down his door, and Gendry staggered to it as fast as he could without falling. Outside stood a weathered man Gendry had never seen before and behind him a group of men bearing different sigils on their chest. “Easy lad, easy.”

Gendry backed away immediately, recoiling from the old man as he tried to close the door as fast as he could. One of the big men stopped him, shaking his head quickly when Gendry glared at him angrily. 

“We ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

“I heard that one before.” Gendry let go of the door, slowly inching back into the bed where his hammer laid. “Get out.”

“We are here to help.” One of the men tried to speak, but his voice faltered when he saw Gendry moving back. “Don’t, lad, we know you have a hammer back there just like pa, careful now.”

“Because that’s what you say when you want to help someone, ‘careful now’.” Gendry scowled at them, his hands behind his back as he tried to feel around for his hammer without turning around. The Brotherhood Without Banners had taught him something, men had no honor when it came to an ordered kill. “Get out!” 

“Gendry, Seven Hells!” A man pushed himself to the front, his eyes the color of shinning sapphires that held frustration in them. “Come here without the hammer, we just want to talk.” 

“I don’t have to listen to you.”

“No, but it would be nice if you have more sense than any other Baratheon that had lived for the past 30 years.” Gendry froze at that, the man’s tone softening the longer he stared at Gendry as if he was a child to pity. In the man’s chest, twin sapphires held his blue cloak to his armor. “My name is Lord Selwyn of Evenfall, I am sworn to House Baratheon.” 

“Storm’s End is a few leagues south, see if they have any left.” Gendry spat out, keeping his glare in place the longer Selwyn Tarth spoke. “So fuck off.” 

If he was offended, Selwyn didn’t show it, instead, his eyes softened, even more, the longer he stared at Gendry. It was starting to bother him, so he changed his glare to the other 3 men stepping into the hunt. “And you? Should I just call you bothersome?” 

One of the younger ones shuffled closer, sweat on his brow as he looked at Gendry nervously as if Gendry could recognize him. The longer he stared, however, the less he did, at least the sigil of House Buckler was familiar to him, there were a few banners always flying high in the Bronzegate. “Ser Brus Buckler of Bronzegate, I served your uncle and his wife before his death.”

Gendry tensed up at that, finally reaching the war hammer and pulling it from behind him. He pointed it at Ser Brus with a scowl, yet the man didn’t even flinch. None of them even reached for their swords, what in the Seven Hells…. 

“And the other two?” Gendry spat out, glaring at the two mute men standing behind Tarth and Buckler. One of the men was larger than the other, the sigil of House Tarth on both of their chests. “Guards?” 

“Escorts.” Selwyn corrected gently, smiling nervously when Gendry glared at him again. “For you, Gendry. Escorts for you.”

“And they’ll be escorting me where? The executioner? A pyre for me to burn in?”

“King’s Landing.”

“Essentially, the same thing, perhaps worse.” Gendry grounded out his teeth, gripping his hammer tightly. “Get out.”

“You are in danger, Gendry,” Selwyn spoke quickly before he could raise his hammer again. “You are being watched, even more so than before, you have to get out of the Stormlands.”

And head to the capital? I cannot be the only one seeing the flaw.” Gendry scowled again, eyes shifting towards Buckler again. “And I wouldn’t trust  _ you  _ even if you are the last helping hand on Westeros, you were working with the red witch.” 

“Yes, but-” 

“She tried to kill me!” 

“But she is no more.” Ser Brus spoke as if it made it all better as if Gendry would quickly hug him now. “Melisandre was banished after she sacrificed the Princess.” 

That did get him to pause, Gendry watched them all carefully as he thought. If Shireen was dead, and Tommen was dead, and Stannis was dead, and everyone with fucking Baratheon blood was dead, why were these fools here with hopeful expressions?

“So who sent you then? If not the Red God and his minions, then I doubt you did it out of your own generosity.” 

“Ser Davos Seaworth.” Gendry felt himself relax at the name, his head snapping to where Selwyn was standing. In his hand was a scroll with a white onion on the dark wax. “He told us who you are, it only took us a few months to track you down.”

“So he betrayed me?” He swallowed his tears before they could choke him. 

“He is saving you.” Ser Brus spoke softly, bowing his head when Gendry glared at him again. “After Stannis died, our army perished with him, only those who stayed in the ships remained. The fleet is strong, but it is nothing without men.”

“I am a blacksmith, not a sailor.”

“We know.” Brus raised his head, eyes apologetic. The man, while only a little older than Gendry, had such tired eyes it almost made him feel sympathetic. “Ser Davos doesn’t want you up north, too dangerous. He wants you down here, in the capital, where you can be safe until he can come to get you himself.”

“R-really?” 

Brus nodded slowly, and Gendry swallowed heavily as his grip on his hammer softened once more. On one hand, he could trust Davos and whatever plans he had, in the other, Cersei Lannister could murder him as quickly as she had done the Tyrells and any other person who stood in her way. He examined the Lord Tarth carefully, trying to see where he fit into any of Ser Davos’ plans. 

As if reading his mind, Selwyn placed the scroll into the nearby creaking table and cleared his throat. “Gendry, he has a lot of faith in you, he had hoped that if you were to be near King’s Landing and if the worst ever came, you could even claim the Iron Throne for a while as the only son of Robert Baratheon, but…”

“The Dragon Queen is in Dragonstone.” Gendry blurted out, never more grateful for the idea of Targaryens in his life. “She is here for the throne, does Davos know that?”

“I have been traveling for close to two moons, he probably doesn’t.” Brus clicked his tongue from beside Selwyn, bowing his head in respect even if Gendry didn’t scowl. “The capital still remains your safest option, Gold Cloaks will make their rounds once more here in the Stormlands just in case a bastard was missed. If Ser Wyllam and Ser Percy here were to take you to the capital, at least nobody would suspect them.” 

“And why is that?” Gendry shifted his gaze to glare once more. 

“They are Gold Cloaks as well, Gendry.” Selwyn gave a soft smile to ease his nerves, it only made him more anxious. “Loyal to your father above all, they will take you to the capital with you wearing golden armor like there's. Nobody would suspect a thing.”

“And then what?” His voice cracked a bit, but they didn’t say anything to that. 

“Tubho Mott is waiting for you in the Street of Steel.” One of the guards spoke, his hair a bright red under the sun. “He promises a bed and food as long as you help him rebuild his shop.”

“So he isn’t dead?” 

“No, tough balls he has, Lord Gendry.” The red-headed man smiled crookedly even when Gendry frowned. 

“I am no Lord, I am just a bastard.” 

“And a bastard was made King in the North, from what we have heard.” Selwyn murmured into the silence, his eyes examining Gendry now. “Jon Snow, Eddard Stark’s bastard son was what my daughter wrote.” 

“Good for him, I am still no bloody lord.” Gendry shifted his hammer in his hands before clearing his throat awkwardly. He eyed Ser Wyllam and Ser Percy for a second, not sure which one was which, before turning to look at Ser Brus. “And if they spot me?” 

“They won’t.” The older man besides the redhead spoke, his eyes a harsh grey. “The capital is a mess, the food is running out and the people are dying left and right. Cersei doesn’t care, and she won’t start caring once you step into King’s Landing.” 

Gendry stared at them all, trying to think of an excuse to skip the trip and go back to bed. He had asked for a call from destiny a few hours ago, but he didn’t bloody think the gods hated him enough to actually grant it. Someone up there had a wicked sense of humor, and Gendry scowled at the thought. If he stayed, he risked death by Lannisters, if he left, he risked death by the Lannisters and Targaryens. One would come quickly, the other had the hopes of Ser Davos rescuing him. Fucking Seven Hells. 

“We leave at noon then.” Gendry let out, his eyes resting on the muddy floor of his hut, trying to ignore the sighs of relief they all let. “Now get out.” 

He watched them leave with a frown, thinking back on what they had said with a frown. Death laid in every direction he was pulled, but as he stared down at his hammer, he knew at least some had a forge. 

🜣🜣🜣🜣🜣🜣🜣🜣

The Hightower was burning green today, Sam watched it for hours from his window in greedy curiosity. Below, Oldtown remained fast asleep, the usual nightlife gone as a somber breeze blew through the stone houses. The streets were still wet from the last storm that had passed, the third storm big enough to burn out the fire in the Hightower and make everyone hide inside whatever place they found themselves near. 

For once, Sam was almost glad he was stuck scrubbing the privies of many old maesters. That meant he didn’t have to go outside and risk losing any important scrolls or books to the harsh winds. But, he really did hate cleaning shit, he was not meant for cleaning shit. He was a brother of the Night’s Watch, he had a mission, his Lord Commander (now turned King in the North if the gossip had spread well) had commanded him to do more. 

_ Quite hard to do if they don’t let me do much _ . Sam grumbled to himself some more, resting his round face on his hands as he kept watching the Hightower. Lords and knights have been arriving since before the storm, all of them in a hurry as they tried to gather their armies before Cersei Lannister raised hers to destroy them all.  _ The Hightowers are the closest to the Tyrells, and if the Tyrells fell, it won’t be too long _ . 

A day of mourning had been conducted around a moon ago, the entire vibrant city had fallen silent and sob at the loss of the Faith in King’s Landing. The Starry Sept, even now, laid dark and somber with mourning maesters, septons, and anyone in between. 

“Anything good happen’ yet?” Sam turned his head with a small smile, Gilly always made him cheer up. “Is it rainin’ still? I was goin’ to take Little Sam out to the markets, see if they have any of those red fruits he likes.” 

“Apples?” Sam gave a small, turning around to face her completely. She was holding a basket to her hip, full of dirty and broken clothes probably. Gilly always came near the window when she needed to sew, she liked the light of the Hightower. “It stopped raining a while back, we could take him tomorrow, you and me.”

“Still avoiding the Citadel, are you?” Gilly only raised an eyebrow and took his place in front of the window. She dug around for a short little tunic, the chest area covered in holes and what looked like porridge stains. “You can’t do that forever, Jon would have your head.” 

There was a joke there, but also a warning, and Sam cleared his throat softly to hide his discomfort. She didn’t speak again, instead, focusing on the holes with a hum as the setting sun and the glowing green light of the tower served as a candle for her. 

“They just….well, they aren’t letting me do anything.”

“They can’t name a man a rabbit hunter if he doesn’t know how to hunt rabbits,” Gilly answered simply, wrinkling her nose down at the tunic. Sam grumbled at her logic, but stayed silent “You have to go sooner or later, you know it, it’s the only way we can survive in this village.”

“City, darling.” Sam corrected softly, and Gilly smiled down at the tunic. “And I will, I will, but I have a long way to go before I can be of any help to Jon, they need to know, they need to do something.” 

“They do know, and they have done something.” Gilly raised her head to look at him, brown eyes kind and gentle as she stared. “They told you to shut up and do your work, I don’t see much of that.” 

“You always know what to say.” Sam couldn’t help the sarcasm, but Gilly just chuckled and returned back to the tunic. 

“Besides, you can’t just collect books and leave them here, they could throw us out of this house and you’ll have a lot of explain’ to do on why you have so many Citadel books.” Sam didn’t turn around as he walked out of the room, but he laughed at her jest all the same. 

Little Sam was playing by the main room, sprawl over the center as he played with a wooden horse. He was making what Sam thought was a horse’s sound, but it sounded more like a dying  _ pfff _ than anything. Sam patted his head as he walked, the babe raising his head with a bright smile before returning back to his horse. It made him nervous, horses, as he knew what was coming soon for Westeros. 

On the journey to Oldtown, Maester Aemon had died, but not before gathering all the letters he had gathered about his great-great-niece. It was a shame the old Maester wouldn’t see his House return once more to Westeros, but Sam felt glad he wouldn’t have to see the Dothraki savages ruin the land. Aemon had once said that his niece would come home one day, and with her, the dragons she had birthed so many years ago, and even then Sam had dreaded that statement more than anything. 

_ A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.  _

And Daenerys Targaryen was truly alone now. 

Sam shook his head at the thought, resting his hand on the great mountain of books he had been piling on the corner table before lifting them up. He paused for a minute, calling into the house into where Gilly would be listening. “I’ll be back tomorrow, close the door behind me.” 

There was no response, just the sound of approaching steps and a soft “good-bye” from Little Sam. He swallowed his pride, holding the books close to his cloak to avoid getting them wet and stepping into the streets of Oldtown. 

It was more alive than he expected, there weren’t as many people as there were usually, but guards and steptons still walked the street. Sam could see the banners of the Reach in many windows, no doubt welcoming the army whatever was left of the Tyrells had called for. As he walked, Samwell couldn’t help but feel relief at the lack of Tarly banners. At least his family, his mother, and his sisters would be safe. 

The green fire of the tower was brighter as Sam walked closer, glowing like a strange moon in the night sky. The clouds from the noon still remained in the sky, keeping the stars from fully showing, Sam mused it only helped the somber air that seemed to sink deeper into the bones of the people. The closer he got to the Citadel, the quieter it seemed to have gotten, the only sign of life of a few passing maesters and acolytes. The sight of the two great green sphinxes made him relax, the sight familiar as he hurried inside before any of the maesters could spot the books he hid in his tunic. 

The more he walked, the more voices he heard, shouting in anger before pausing and starting again. Sam knew the Reach lords had gathered here, why, he didn’t know, Highgarden seemed like the best bet to organize a battle. As Sam passed the Seneschal's Court, his head bowed when the guards glared at him, he could hear the lords fighting still. 

“Olenna set her orders, you fool! I won’t hear it again, the fleet moves to Dorne!”

Sam tried not to raise his head in confusion, for the guards standing still were glaring at him for even pausing. He swallowed heavily, gripping the books before marching to the library as quickly as he could. There were only a few people walking the halls to the library, all of them whispering about the meeting being had inside. Even Sam wondered, why had the meeting here and not on the Hightower? 

The sight of the library doors made him sigh in relief, his arms were beginning to hurt and he knew he only had a few hours to get some light reading in before starting his chores. An acolyte glanced at him from where he stood by the door, a tight smile on his lips before opening the door for Sam. At least people still had manners down South, the Wall didn’t have the same comforts. 

As soon as he walked in, Sam regretted it, for Marwyn the Mage sat on his favorite table with more than three mountains of books surrounding him. Archmaester Marwyn was a short man with beady eyes and white hair coming out of his ears and nose. Rumors always said he was a dark man with even darker abilities, the chain links of Valyrian steel were a sure telling of it. He was more intelligent than he was horrifying, however, which was saying a lot. When Sam had reached Oldtown, Marwyn had been one of the few to welcome him into the Citadel, his eyes hungry as he looked around for someone in his traveling group. Maester Aemon, Marwyn had mentioned once, his tone frustrated, Maester Aemon was the key. 

“Ah, Samwell Tarly.” Marwyn didn’t look up as Sam waddled closer, his eyes resting stubbornly on the large tome he read. “What are you here for? Another tale of dead men? Perhaps you come to crush my hopes and dreams this time around by telling me Daenerys Targaryen died as well.”

He’ll blame me for that, probably, Sam thought bitterly, but he rested his books on Marwyn’s table and stayed silent. 

“Well it doesn't matter, I’ll be going to Dragonstone as soon as I finish my study.” Marwyn continued on as if Sam had spoken, humming as he read. Besides him, his steel staff caught Sam’s eye, the Valyrian steel easy to distinguish. “Can’t risk anything now in days, the grey sheep will want to have their hands all over the island as soon as they can. I won’t allow them.”

“Becau-because of the dragons?”

“So there is a brain inside that thick skull.” Marwyn gave a pleased hum, raising his head to look at Sam finally. Under the low candlelight, his eyes looked as brown as rusted iron. “Sit down, Tarly, I have a task for you.”

“A task?” He murmured softly to avoid stuttering, Marwyn’s eyes made him afraid, there was a bright knowing glint every time he looked at Sam. “Whatever for?” 

“Your obscure quest, of course.” The Archmaester returned to his book with a scoff, waving his hand in a dismissive matter. “Maester Aemon knew he was dying, that twisted old cod, I will miss him, he brought you here for a reason and I’m sure the newly crowned King in the North had something to do with it as well.”

“Well, sir-”

“Hush now boy, I am speaking.” He looked up again, glaring at him as if he was a child. “Aemon knew his end was near, and he still made his way down south even if he knew it could kill him. That, for me, is enough proof for everything, your dead men are coming aren’t they?”

Sam only nodded, feeling more stupid the longer the maester stared at him. 

“Thought as much, the other dying meats that swear they know everything thinks you are just crazy, it’s why they have you cleaning and not studying.” Sam frowned at that, offended, yet Marwyn continued on as if he hadn’t even breathed. “You see, Samwell, if you’re dead men are truly coming, and as you said before, they are only killed by dragon glass and fire, who is the one person in the entirety of Westeros who has all?”

Sam blinked at him owlishly, swallowing when Marwyn raised a testing eyebrow. “D-Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Good lad.” Marwyn nodded with a smile, turning back to his book with a soft whistle. “Dragonstone, the fort mind you, rests on a large cave of dragonglass, the Dragonmont even more so, though there’s the possibility of dying in a pit of lava if you enter the volcano. The dragons, of course, are another thing the Silver Queen has, three if I am not mistaken, if I can get to her with my supply of books, those three will quickly become more.”

Sam stared at him with a second, trying to think of what subject to breach first. It was all too much, first, the Marwyn actually believed him, nobody has ever done that without seeing the White Walkers first. Then he  _ helps  _ him, dragonglass, in  _ Dragonstone! _ Why didn’t anyone think of that? And of course, the sweet jam on the pie, Daenerys Targaryen had three dragons available to torch anyone who stands on their path. Brilliant, just brilliant.

“Dragonglass, on Dragonstone?” Marwyn looked up with a glare again, annoyed by the stupid question but it had been the one thing Sam’s mind could process the easiest. “Truly? Enough for the whole North?” 

“And a little more if the Queen allows it.” Sam furrowed his eyebrows at the title, Marwyn watching him still with an amused smile. “You have been away a little too long, Samwell Tarly, House Hightower bent the knee along with the Tyrells and a number of other Reach lords. Willas Tyrell is headed towards Dragonstone, it’s what they are discussing there, a plan of action to avoid losing their fleet when crossing the Summer Sea near Dorne.”

“So….”

“I am afraid you are part of the Targaryen banner now, best tell Jon Snow.” Marwyn gave a crooked smile, his eyes still looking at him as if he was nothing more than a babe. “It doesn’t matter if you are wearing a Stark sigil or a three-headed dragon, Samwell Tarly, the Great War is coming, if the priests in Volantis are to be believed, and I do believe them. So you will stay here and study until I call for you, or until you solve the problem I am currently facing.”

“What problem?” Sam inched closer, confusion growing when Marwyn smiled like a cat. 

“Tell me, Tarly, what do you know of Jorah Mormont?” 

🜣🜣🜣🜣🜣🜣🜣🜣

Snow clouds were gathering above and the landscape was tinged with grey, but Arya could finally breathe in relief for the first time in many years. She tried to look at everything all at once, the falling snowflakes and the weak northern sun, the stretching dark green woods, and the passing crows that flew above. She could see the Bite if she looked to her left, the Three Sisters far away but she knew them all the same. Maester Luwin had once said that to know one’s country is the first step to never lose one’s way, Arya hoped the old maester was right. 

Ahead laid the broken tower of Widow’s Watch, the grey stones, and roof covered in snow with no watchmen standing watch. Her shipmates, some Northern merchants who never looked too closely (they were scared of her, she knew, for her eyes were wild and Needle shone on her hip) others Essosi sailors who looked too used to the northern cold for this to be their first voyage, had not been very happy with her request to dock in Widow’s Watch. Mostly because Widow’s Watch had no proper dock, just sharp rocks coming from the sea to sink ships. 

They still did it, of course, she paid them enough to shut their mouths and to leave her alone while she rested. Arya was glad for the cold bite of the wind, it cooled the fever caused by the wounds the waif had left behind. She had tried to keep herself alive for the past four days, the trip from Braavos to Westeros had been smooth and quick enough, but she needed a maester and House Flint would have one, hopefully. 

White Harbor would also have a maester, she was sure, but House Manderly would cause too much ruckus and disrupt her peace and quiet. Besides, at least the Flints could be bribed, the Lord Manderly would just demand a marriage to keep the entire situation quiet, or even, they would sell her to the Boltons. Arya had other plans that were too important, she couldn’t get captured, and definitely wouldn’t marry a Manderly. She just hoped Lyessa Flint would be smart enough to not mean her any harm. 

“You sure you want to stay there?” One of the sailors, Iron, a Braavosi boy with the brightest green eyes Arya had ever seen, questioned her. He had been an Unsullied once, or so he claims, or at least part of the younger Unsullied garrison freed by Daenerys Targaryen a few years back. A peculiar name, Iron, Arya heard him speak of how it was the name he had been given the Breaker of Chains had entered Astapor. “It looks like hell.”

“Better than this wretched ship.” 

“You don’t mean that, Lady Mercy.” Iron waved his hand dismissively, his eyes resting on the grey clouds above. “This is the first time I have been in the North.”

“Well, for your sake, pray is the last.” Arya bit down a smirk at his snort, her own grey gaze examining the approaching rocks. The ship was slowing down, the other men readying her small rowboat. “This is my home, just like Braavos was yours.”

“Braavos hasn’t been my home in a long while.” Iron made a face at the floating snowflakes, his nose wrinkled as some landed on his dark cheeks. “Astapor was a prison, but it was all I know.”

“Knew.” Arya corrected softly, bouncing on her heels to calm her nerves. She rested her hand on Needle’s hilt, trying to steady her breathing. “You thinking of going back to your Dragon Queen?”

Iron shook his head slowly at the grey sea, a soft smile on his face. “No, no, Mhysa gave us a choice long ago. To the younglings like me, some even younger than me, those stayed behind in Meereen to study and train like real men. I chose the sea, I chose the world, Daenerys Jelmazmo bid me goodbye with a smile and my own money pouch. For nothing more I ask.”

Arya watched him for a second, frowning at the almost serene smile he had on as he watched the north’s landscape. She gave a small sigh, nodding quickly when a merchant with a white beard called for her and heading down to the rowboat they had prepared for her. 

“Safe travels, Mercy.”

“Arya.” She sat down on the boat with a wince, pressing her hand to her side with a hiss before looking up at the merchants. Some had frozen in their tracks, looking at her as if they had seen a ghost as if they had just seen her now. “My name is Arya, safe travels to you all.” 

“Wait-wait!” 

Arya started to row before they could get any crazy ideas of jumping overboard to get her. She waved a mocking hand to the gaping northern men onboard, and bid a parting smile to the Braavosi Unsullied who still stood on the ship’s bow. She pulled her cloak up to hide her face, trying to will herself to cry like the House of Black and White had taught her. A horn blew behind her, Widow’s Watch had spotted her. 

I

“So you are what the fuss has been all about?” Lyessa Flint was not a very gentlewoman, Arya could tell from the second she had entered her hall. She sat on an ironwood chair at the end of the hall, her face passive as she watched Arya approach. Her eyes were a hard grey and her greying dark mane was pulled into a braid. “Little Arya of Winterfell, you were a child when I saw you last.”

It had been years, Arya had just been five when Lyessa Flint last visited Winterfell, somehow, she remembered the Lady of Widow’s Watch to be much older than she looked now. Still, her hard stare remained, and her lips were thinned into a frown as Arya paused in front of her. 

“My Lady Flint.” Arya didn’t curtsey, just bowed her head quickly before meeting the older woman’s gaze. If she didn’t know herself as a Stark, a Flint would fit her also, for they both had the unflinching grey gaze and long face. “I apologize for barging into your home.” 

“Nonsense.” Lyessa continued to stare at her with a frown, her eyebrow quirking in amusement the longer she did so. “You have been missing from the North a while now, child, almost 6 years if I remember correctly. What brings you here to the Widow’s Watch?” 

“Shelter, my lady.” Arya tried her best polite smile and Lyessa did smile then. “A quiet place to rest before I take my leave.”

“To Winterfell?”

“To the Twins.” Lyessa paled a little at that, the years truly showing on her face then. “I would have stopped in White Harbor, but I cannot say I trust those lords all too well. They would sell me to the Boltons before I could even draw my sword.”

“And I wouldn’t?”

“You haven’t so far.” Arya shifted on her feet slightly, trying to cover her grimace when Needle’s hilt touched her wound. 

Lyessa stared at her for a while, noticing the grimace almost immediately and raising her hand towards Arya. “The Boltons are no more here in the North, Arya Stark. Ramsay Bolton married your sister, Sansa, and when she escaped his hold, she rode to Castle Black. Your brother was crowned King in the North less than a week ago, your Grace.”

Arya recoiled slightly at the title, not being able to hide her surprise as Lyessa continued to watch her like she was a cornered animal. The Lady of Widow’s Watch dropped her extended hand, motioning towards the guards posted on the doors to the Hall before she rose from her chair. 

“You have been gone for some time,” Lyessa spoke softly, watching her with pity as Arya continued to stare down at the floor. Little by little, every plan she had made had gone up in flames. “Are you hurt, child?”

Arya nodded mutely, barely registering her words as she tried to steady her breathing. Lyessa came closer, slowly raising her face as a mother would do to a child. The action was so familiar yet so foreign Arya almost cried, her mother had once held her like that, even if she couldn’t remember the feel of her soft hands.

Lyessa stared at her with a frown, bottom lip trembling slightly. “You look so much like her, Lyanna.” She mumbled softly, shaking her sadly. “Where have you been, child? You are burning up, try to breathe in and out, in and out.”

“I need to go.” Arya tried to shake her head, her jaw stubbornly set but Lyessa held on. “I need to leave, I need to go home, I need to kill the Freys before they do it again, please, please-”

“Arya.” Lyessa started with a frown, her own jaw stubbornly set. “You are not going anywhere until your fever goes down, not to Winterfell, and certainly not to see Walder Frey’s ugly mug. Your brother would have my head if I allow it, your father would never forgive me, never mind what your mother would do when she and I meet in the afterlife.”

“They have Winterfell,” Arya mumbled, blinking rapidly to keep her head steady. Her side felt wet, and when Lyessa touched her tunic, her hand was stained red. “Ah, that stings!” 

“Stubborn girl.” The older woman scowled, the doors opening and the sound of feet coming closer as Arya swayed on her feet. She jerked back when someone touched her shoulder, a scowl on her pale face even at the sight of the maester. “This is the Princess, Maester Edion, treat her well, or Jon Snow would gladly have your head.” 

“I’m fine.” Arya tried to scowl, but the maester shot her a look that spoke of his disbelief. “Just give me milk of the poppy and a horse, I’ll be on my way.” 

“To bed with you.” Lyessa did scowl at her, looking like what Arya imagined her own mother would look if she had the northern coloring. “You will rest, you will eat, and you will stay until I say so. Not another word, Arya Stark, off with you.” 

II

The next time Arya saw Lyessa Flint, she had slept for 14 hours straight and had a tightly wrapped torso. She had also been fed, the delicacies of the north were something she had missed terribly, and a nice stew was all she needed to chase the fever away. The Flint servants had directed her towards a barely used guest room, there was still dust in some surfaces, but a hearth was roaring and the bed was softer than a ship’s cot. 

When Arya woke, Lyessa was sitting nearby on a chair, her hands busy with something she was embroidering, something which made Arya wrinkle her nose in distaste. She had always hated embroidering, it was too boring, besides, she had her own way with a needle. The thought of knitting turned her sad however, Sansa had loved to knit (she was even  _ good _ ) and if Lyessa hadn’t lied, Sansa was still alive back home on Winterfell, with Jon. 

Jon. Her brother was still alive, her shock had been mainly caused by that, she had been telling herself for years now that Jon Snow was a brave man, and brave men die every time they do something foolish. She had been thinking of him as she thought of Robb, or Rickon and Bran, dead, another name to avenge, another person to kill for. But he wasn’t dead, he was alive, and crowned, nobody had cared about his status as a bastard and Arya felt a spark of happiness somewhere inside of her at the thought. Her brother was safe, and he was strong, he was home. 

“I have a son your age.” Lyessa’s soft musing broke her internal thoughts. “His name is Morgan, he is only a few moons younger than you. I sent him away to your brother as a steward, I thought, what better way to teach a once bastard son how to be a lord, than a King who is one himself?”

“You had a bastard?” 

“And my husband, may he burn in whatever Seven Hells he is on, had 10.” Lyessa didn’t raise her eyes from her embroidery. Arya turned her head on the pillow to watch her, feeling like a child until she saw what exactly the Lady of Widow’s Watch had on her hands. It was her trousers, and Lyessa was making new ones. The thought made her feel embarrassed, but the wound on her torso forced her to stay in bed. “I was friends with your aunt once, Arya Stark, you remind me very much of her.” 

Arya stayed silent, keeping her eyes firmly on the grey thread Lyessa was knitting with. The older woman continued with a soft hum, the beginning of a song Arya didn’t know. “Yes, Lyanna Stark was very much like you. Very stubborn as well, more so, I believe, she had more restrictions and rules placed upon her. Her Lord father, your grandfather, loved to spoil her rotten, and so whatever Lyanna wanted, be it a bow, a sword, a dagger, or a horse, she had.” 

“My father didn’t talk about her much,” Arya mumbled into the pillow, swallowing to get rid of her dry throat. “Nobody did.” 

“Yes, they treat her like a curse now.” Lyessa clicked her tongue, not looking up as she continued her story. “When I became her lady-in-waiting, I was freshly married at the age of 15, and freshly out of the birthing bed with my son, Robin. He died a few years back defending his King, and like fools, his bannermen joined Roose Bolton. Your brother made the right choice in removing the Flint’s Fingers from those dogs.” 

“In the Red Wedding?” 

Lyessa nodded slowly, looking up with a sad frown. “I remember the harvest feast your brother Bran called, back when he was Lord of Winterfell. He was a good Lord, I was sad to hear of his disappearance. At the time, I was unable to go because of the babe I carried and the pox that was spreading through Widow’s Watch. I lost the babe and my darling husband, long may he rot, by the time the Red Wedding. All of my family, gone, buried, and betrayed.”

“You had one more.” Arya closed her eyes, fighting to stay awake the longer Lyessa spoke. She didn’t even realize how tired she truly was, and the fact she had a soft spot for stories didn’t make matters better.

“Yes, my Morgan.” Lyessa gave another hum, the voice soft and distant. “I was going to name him Lyanna if he had been born a girl. After my best friend, but alas, the gods gave me a healthy boy, and I couldn’t love him properly for the early parts of his life. I sent him as far as I could bear it, for my husband was a cruel person and the Gods only know what he would have done to my boy. He never did like that Morgan was a son of a blacksmith, but to hell with his opinions.”

Arya forced herself to keep her eyes open, a jolt running down her spine once the word blacksmith was uttered. In the back of her mind, where the few good memories she had following her father’s death laid, she could see bright blue eyes and hear the sounds of a roaring forge. She forced herself to close her eyes again, trying to burn away whatever tears and feelings could rise before speaking into the quiet room. 

“Tell me about my aunt, please.” 

“Lyanna.” The older woman began softly, Arya didn’t see her but she couldn’t recognize the sad tone when the name was said. “The She-Wolf of Winterfell, they called her, they were right. She bared her teeth at anyone who crossed her, she was fierce, quick, if she had been born a man she would have grown to be an excellent knight, you know? She rode better than Brandon, may his soul rest in peace, and she made your father laugh so hard, Ned would cry.”

“I didn’t know that,” Arya whispered, trying to remember her father’s smile, his gentle eyes, the way he watched her sadly every time she did something mischievous.

“Yes, well, they like to paint her as a gentle maiden down South.” Lyessa’s tone turned harsh, and Arya opened her eyes to watch her curiously. “But your aunt knew how to defend herself, Arya, she would have never left her family while still breathing. You have her stubbornness.”

“Rhaegar Targaryen could have knocked her out, she wouldn’t have put up a fight.” 

“Yes, but she could have also jumped out her chamber’s window and ran into the night with the Silver Prince.” Arya furrowed her eyebrows, opening her mouth to question her before Lyessa stood up slowly. “Enough about that, they are both dead, all of them, nothing remains but ashes and whispered memories.”

The Lady of Widow’s Watch folded what she had been sewing carefully, a sort of dress with trousers and a fur cape. Arya watched her carefully, catching the grey direwolf stitched into the shoulder. Lyessa paid her no attention, folding the clothes and laying it by Arya’s feet, still humming the soft song Arya didn’t know. 

“You will have a choice to make soon, Arya of Winterfell.” Lyessa stared down at her with a frown. Arya tensed up immediately at her gaze. “My maester says you will be ready to go soon, your wound was not as infected as it should be from someone who traveled from Braavos.”

“H-how?” 

Lyessa held up a Braavosi coin, her eyebrow up like a mother’s. “You may go south, or you may go north, it is your choice. I only ask that you rest first.”

“Will you tell Jon and Sansa?” Arya closed her eyes slowly, trying to breathe through the pain. It didn’t hurt as much this morning, Arya blamed the damn maester and his bloody bandages. 

“Do you want me to?” 

“No.”

“Then I will say nothing, Princess.” Lyessa gave a small bow if she disapproved of her decisions, she didn’t show. Arya frowned at the title, not opening her eyes again as she spoke into the room.

“I am no Princess, I’m just no one.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's set up a quick timeline then, currently, it is the year 306 AC (with Jon not having turned 23 yet and Dany having passed her 21st birthname during the voyage, so lots of fun) and it's around the Westerosi March to get some bearing here. The first chapter takes place right after the TV show's season 6 finale, a week after Jon Snow was crowned in the Great Hall, Daenerys arrives on Dragonstone a month after this (let's safely say Daenerys left Meereen during those months Jon and Sansa were planning for the Battle of the Bastards because it would take a few months to sail from Meereen to Dragonstone (in my head, she first traveled to Volantis, met Kinvara, and then sailed to Westeros) During those months, Bran was traveling with Meera, Jaime and Bronn were laying siege to Riverrun, Cersei was making the city suffer before and after the explosion in the Sept of Baelor, and Sam traveled and studied in the Citadel. This chapter takes place on the days and weeks after Daenerys comes to Westeros. The next chapter, "The King in the North" will have the meeting that was promised in the first chapter as well as a mini time jump to get the timeline in order. 
> 
> Make sure to ask questions if you want! I know I can be confusing sometimes.


	6. The King in the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow faces the many crises of the North (Ft. Ghost, the true King in the North)

> _ “My Crown is in my heart, not on my head:  
> Not deck'd with Diamonds, and Indian stones:  
> Nor to be seen: my Crown is call'd Content,  
> A Crown it is, that seldom Kings enjoy.”  
>  _ **― William Shakespeare, [King Henry VI, Part 3](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/6172603)**

* * *

Quietly, Jon wondered to himself if starting a meeting while the world grew dark outside was the best idea. Somehow, as he watched as the snow clouds thickened under the light of the moon from where he stood by a window, he doubted it. 

After leaving the crypts, Jon retreated back to his room to avoid any of the grumbling northern lords. A good choice, he decided, for they all seemed to be in a bad mood and he didn’t trust his temper to not strangle them. Instead of going to his new chambers (once they were Robb’s and he couldn’t stand it), he had gone to his old one near the servants’ solar to be left alone. As he watched them from his window, his single window allowed a small view of the courtyard rather than any of the scenic scenes his siblings’ had, knights, and common men were mixed in mud and snow. 

Jon could see the Knights of the Vale to the side, their pristine silver armor without dirt as they trained amongst themselves. He watched them with a frown, the habit to hide in the shadows useful even now when he was crowned King. They were proud people, and people with pride didn’t last long against the White Walkers. Jon wouldn’t think himself foolish enough to think, or hope, they were here for him, no, the way they trailed behind Sansa said it all. When the time came, Jon wished to see how many would piss themselves like green boys when the dead came. 

To the side, the Freefolk and some of Bear Island’s men were laughing like children. As Jon watched them, he couldn’t help but smile as well, the merry mood, while rare, was proof peace could be achieved between some. Other northern men were grumbling to the side, scowling at something like always, and not for the first time today, Jon rolled his eyes at them and their tendencies. Manderly’s men, Jon could tell, their hairs were all odd colors and they carried around their tridents. Mixed with them were guards from Last Hearth (Little Ned Umber nowhere in sight), Deepwood Motte (Lord Glover was there, scowling until he turned red), Torrhen’s Square (Lady Eddara Tallhart whispering with her ladies-in-waiting), Oldcastle (Old man Locke shivering but still frowning), and Cerwyn (Jonelle Cerwyn glaring at Lady Tallhart the more she whispered)

Jon had half a mind to cancel the meeting altogether and just wait until they were being less infuriating. He turned his gaze up for a second, watching with a frown as the orange sky faded slowly into a dark blue. A snowstorm was coming, again, winter had been here for less than a week and he was already tired of it. 

“He’s in here, boy? You’re sure?” Jon didn’t turn around, merely rolling his eyes when he heard Ser Davos’ voice coming from outside his door. He smiled, however, for the creature scratching at the door could only be a direwolf. “Yoer Grace? If you please, we are going to run late for a meeting  _ you  _ called for.”

“I apologize, Ser Davos, but I find myself sick.”

“Oh, winter coughs?”

“No, just sick of their grumbling already,” Jon grumbled himself, pausing at the irony of it before scoffing and going to open the door. “Would I be a horrible King for telling them it’s cancelled?”

“Well, what’s the other possibility?” Ser Davos didn’t even hesitate to reply, no doubt scolding him internally from where he stood. Besides him, Ghost blinked at him slowly, red eyes familiar and somehow gentler than any other gaze Jon had seen. The direwolf didn’t make a sound, raising his snout and blowing a soft huff into Jon’s hair. 

“I set Ghost on them.” Jon didn’t need to see Davos know he was smiling, his attention was on his direwolf. He sank his hand into the white fur, somehow Ghost was more clean than half of the northern Lords outside. “Isn’t that right, boy?” 

The direwolf just wagged his tail like a common pup, as if he didn’t match the height of a large foal or bared his teeth like a feared predator. Jon smiled widely at him, the feeling foreign to him, ever since the red witch brought him back, everything felt too foreign. His companion gave another impatient huff, rubbing his head on Jon’s chest (over the scars, as he always does) before turning around and walking away as silently as he came. 

“That wolf is the real King in the North.” Davos was watching Ghost move with amusement, though like all wise men, there was a carefulness to his gaze and posture. Good, Jon thought to himself, he didn’t need a fool for a Hand, one with survival instincts would do. “Look how he walks, all proud and mighty, a much better showman than his human.”

“Just because I don’t have time to deal with Lord Glover’s horseshit doesn’t mean I’m a poor showman.” 

“Of course, lad, anyone who came back from the dead is allowed their dramatics.” Davos gave a smirk hidden behind his greying beard. He rested his hands behind his back as he usually does, and started to follow Ghost down the hall back to Great Hall. “Though I believe there should be a limit.”

“I am not dramatic,” Jon grumbled to himself, following him as he did so. He felt more like a whining child following his father than a King following his advisor. 

“And Valyrians didn’t have dragons.” Davos waved a hand without turning around, and Jon did give a laugh at that. “So was your master plan for the evening hiding out in your old rooms so you can avoid proper grooming?”

“Why? Did it fail?” 

Davos gave a laugh at that, shaking his head but not turning around to face him. “No, I said it didn’t, the meeting is about to start. Your pretty hair survives yet another day.”

“Ser Davos?”

“Yes, your Grace?”

“Shut up.” 

The laugh that followed made Jon roll his eyes, the shadow of his grin hidden by his growing black beard. He would need proper grooming, Jon knew, it would do no good to fight with long hair and having to tie it back was something he didn’t have time for. ‘You have no time for anything’ Ser Davos would surely scold if he voiced his thoughts. Jon felt it was much safer to keep his domestic, simple worries quiet, none of it mattered in the long run anyway. The darkness would welcome them all, hungry or fed, lonely or happy, once death comes. 

“-Maester Wolkan wasn’t sure where they had come from, but he did say that it certainly wasn’t the first.” Davos was speaking by the time Jon had brushed aside his thoughts, his hands in tight fists as he walked. “What do you think?” 

“Think of what?” 

Ser Davos turned around with a confused expression, looking at him carefully before relaxing his shoulders. The old smuggler knew him too well in this second life, he could quickly tell when he was distracted when his thoughts had taken him back to that dark abyss where nothing existed. Jon hated the pity that would appear on his Hand’s eyes, but he bit his tongue on it as always. 

“While I was in my reading session with Wolkan, I found a strange raven among the others,” Davos reached into his sleeve, knowing Jon was paying attention. Indeed he was, his shoulders had tensed up the second Davos had mentioned the word ‘strange’. His immediate thought was of the Wall and of Edd still manning it with whatever was left of his once brothers. His second thought, a more worrying one, was on a declaration of war from the south. The North couldn’t handle one more attack, never mind two wars. 

“That’s an odd sigil,” Jon mumbled to himself, taking the message and opening with a frown. “Is it supposed to be a net? I don’t know any houses with ne-”

Jon fell silent, reading the words with a deeper frown. ‘The Silver Queen’, he had heard that moniker before, Maester Aemon loved nothing more than to read the few news that came from Slaver’s Bay. She had conquered Astapor, Yunkai, Aemon had said that to him with a tone filled with pride and love. Meereen will come next, the old maester had said and Jon had brushed it aside. But if this really was the Dragon Queen, then Westeros would have more wars in the near future. The mention of ‘Meereen’ just sealed his theory even more. “A Targaryen?”

“I don’t know.” Davos gave a shrug before reaching for another raven inside his sleeve. “I was going to read this to you later, to not spook the northern lords more than you will with this meeting. But, seeing we have one bad news after another…”

Jon knew as soon as he caught sight of the golden lion on the red wax, a scowl making its way into his long face. Ahead of them, Ghost had stopped to watch them in front of the great doors to the Great Hall. “Don’t tell me it’s a declaration of war.”

“Worse.” Davos clicked his tongue slightly. “Cersei Lannister was crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and demands for you to go South and bend the knee.”

“Aye, it is worse.” Jon scowled as he took the message, his eyes narrowing down at the dramatically cursive words in anger. It would be easier to deal with a quick declaration of war than to drag it on for various ravens. He rolled up the scroll with a sigh, feeling the weight of his new crown even without having it upon his brow. King, they had crowned him, yet, they had failed to mention the stress. Davos was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, waiting for something other than a solemn frown. 

“Two, possibly three, wars.” He felt the beginning of a headache starting on his nose. By the great doors, Ghost had stood up and begun his walk back to him, silent as always. The direwolf rested his snout over his heart, staring at him right in the eyes. Only the weirwood trees had red like Ghost’s eyes, and Jon promised himself he would go to the godswood tomorrow for some peace and quiet. “Cersei Lannister will get no response, I’ll talk to Sansa about it later.”

“And the Targaryen girl?” 

“She’s still far away.” Jon buried his hands into Ghost’s fur, shaking him slowly back and forth before looking up at Davos with a hard stare. “We’ll deal with the so-called Silver Queen when she actually gets here, for now, the Night King should be our only worry.”

“There’s a Wall to separate us.”

Jon thought back to the dreams that had been haunting him since the red witch brought him back, of fire and the stench of death in the air, of blood and how it dripped from the very top of the Wall. He remembered a horn, it's sounds harsh and commanding, and he remembered the three blasts of it, the sound so loud that when he woke up, it still made his headache. The Night’s Watch had a system in place just for that, one for a ranger, two for danger, and three for the Others. Jon wondered, darkly, hopelessly, if it was just a sight of the future that laid ahead if it was a sign he had come back just to fall again at the hands of the Great Other. 

Ser Davos had stayed silent, his brown eyes examining Jon like he was waiting for a big speech filled with hope. The Onion Knight received nothing, instead, Jon bowed his head to mimic a nod and he replied with the same. 

“Well, your Grace,” The older man mumbled softly. From inside the Great Hall, Jon could hear the sound of grumbles and curses. “Better hope we die at the hands of the Others and not the northern lords. We’ll know no peace then.”

There will never be any peace, no matter what. Jon had half a mind to tell him so, yet, he stayed silent and gave him a small grin, crushing one’s morale never did any good to anyone’s soul. He turned his eyes to the great doors, Ghost by his right and Davos by his left, before giving a resounding sigh. 

“Hopefully, they have grown a bit more in wits since our last meeting.” Jon didn’t have to turn his head, Davos was smiling all the same. 

❆

They had, in fact, not grown more wits since the last meeting and unfortunately, Jon’s patience has not grown at all as well. The last time they had sat on this Hall, they had crowned him King in the North, they had even  _ cheered  _ for him and for whatever they believed laid ahead for an independent North. Jon couldn’t help but sigh at the stupidity of it all even now as he sat on the long oak table overlooking all the arguing lords. 

When he had entered the Great Hall, the all-mighty lords had just finished a grueling debate on the matter of who would get the most spoils of war left behind in the fields outside Winterfell. House Mormont had won, and the small Lady Lyanna had a pleased glint on her eyes as she watched her men make plans on how to use the leftover steel and wool. When he had finally sat on his assigned seat (the great oak chair once had intricate direwolf designs, now it was covered in scratches and singed wood) the debate switched to the matter of horses and grain. Ser Davos had sat on his right with a subtle scoff, looking at Jon as if he couldn’t believe it. 

Jon couldn’t either, when his father ruled the halls of Winterfell everyone fell silent whenever he would enter the room, the solemn respect always present. But for him, nobody had spared him a glance until Ghost had walked between the two main tables, his head high in the air and his steps as silent as always. Jon couldn’t help but smile at the direwolf, remembering Davos’ statement on who was the real King in the North. 

_ The Great White Wolf of Winterfell.  _ Ghost had planted himself on Jon’s left, the lack of chair giving him enough room to be comfortable. But Jon Snow was hailed as the White Wolf as well, he might not have the Stark name, but he was still King. 

“My lords and ladies.” He utilized the silence before it could fall into chaos once more, those who had risen in alarm at the sight of Ghost settling once more in their seats. “Once more, welcome to Winterfell.” 

From his far left, behind Ghost’s great head, he could feel Sansa staring holes into his side profile. 

“As always, your Grace, it is a pleasure to be welcomed in your halls.” Wylis Manderly spoke up, the trident clasp on his cloak gleaming under the candlelight. Outside, the sky had turned a soft orange again, a snowstorm would soon arrive. 

Jon nodded at him in greeting, turning his eyes towards the rest of the quiet crowd. Some mumbled their pleasantries quietly, others, like Lyanna Stark, just bowed their heads in respect. “I apologize for calling on you at this hour, but I feel the matter I will discuss will be better understood under the darkness of the night.”

Confused looks were exchanged in the crowd, but nobody spoke up. Jon saw Sansa shift in her seat from the corner of his eye, irritation of not knowing what he was talking about clear on her face. Her Tully eyes were as sharp as Lady Catelyn's, the temper and disapproval eerily similar as well. 

“A long time has passed since my father and his family sat on this very table.” Jon began slowly, dropping his hand from his chair’s armrest to rest on Ghost’s back. “Since then, we have lost countless of our men, we have risked the lives of children and families, we have endangered our lives over and over, and over again. I am afraid to say, my lords and ladies, that while I was not here to see the rise and the fall of my own brother, Robb, I was facing something much worse Beyond-the-Wall.”

“Wildings?” Jonelle Cerwyn spoke softly, her hard stare a striking thing compared to the rest of her child-like features. She was no older than him, Jon knew, barely older than Sansa as it was, and had already seen so much. 

“No.” Jon stood up with a sigh, placing his hands on the table and leaning against it. He stared into the crowd, some whispering as they watched him curiously. Jon wondered for a brief second if they thought him mad or even if they would think him mad after he finished his story. “When I was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, I had asked the Maester in the Wall to write ravens to each of the northern houses for food and wool. You all refused the call, though I cannot put it against you, the Boltons were to blame for that. The Maester had written that the supplies were needed to combat the cold in the upcoming wilding attacks.” 

A short wave of grumbles and curses were heard, and Jon was glad Tormund had refused to attend this particular meeting.  _ I’m not putting myself in the same room as those cunts to hear the same story about those blue-eyed fucks _ . The redhead Freefolk had the right idea. 

“That was a lie.” The room froze at the sound of his voice, turning their gaze towards him with nothing short of curiosity. “There was an attack coming, yes, but not from the Freefolk, but from  _ them _ , from the Others.” 

And so, with the hall deadly silent, Jon began his story with a steady breath. The more he talked, the more the temperature seemed to have dropped inside the Great Hall. He spoke first of the blue-eyed man who had risen from the dead and almost killed Lord Commander Jeor Mormont if not for the lit lantern in the room. Fire, Jon explained, the fire was only one of the ways to get rid of the wights. Dragonglass and Valyrian Steel destroyed them as well, he had said into the silent room, his heart heavy as he spoke of Hardhome and of the thousands of lives lost to the Night King’s army. 

“I am not asking you to believe in an invisible monster, I am asking you to understand that Death will come to our homes and keeps if we do nothing.” Jon stared into the crowd, some of the lords have been shifting uneasily since he finished his story. “The army of the dead will come, my lords and ladies, and the Night King cares not of grain and horses, of petty alliances and lack of respect. They will come, and unless we prepare ourselves, we will not survive to see spring.” 

His words stayed with them, Jon could tell from the way some froze at the thought. The younger ones, those who had seen almost all of it and barely come of age, had been briefly shivering fright when he mentioned the Night King, but like the true Lords of Old, they had straightened their shoulders in determination. Young Ned Umber, with his boyish cheeks and a missing tooth, had nodded at him from across the room, Lyanna Mormont doing the same seconds before. The older lords were more hesitant, exchanging looks as if Jon was truly a mad person, whispering amongst themselves in worry. Not for the upcoming war, but for the decision that had led them to place a crown on a bastard’s head. 

Jon glanced to his side, watching as a thousand thoughts ran through his sister’s mind. He wondered then, how easily Sansa could control the situation if she were to speak up. Did she know? He mused to himself. Did she know how much the northern lords hung to her every word? How, even when they hailed him the victor of the Battle of the Bastards, she was still the Princess they would protect to their last breaths? 

Of course, she did, Jon knew when he saw a blank mask settle over her face, her Tully eyes examining the crowd. He turned his head as well, trying to swallow the scowl that was stuck on his throat. From the back of the room, Morgan Flint was watching him with a question clear on his eyes. Jon had been no older than him when he joined the Watch, and with a sigh, he gave a small nod in confirmation. 

“If the North plans to survive, my lords,” Jon spoke again, voice hoarse as the whispering stopped. “We have to fight. Do you understand?” 

It was Wylis Manderly who spoke up next, small eyes showing his true panic as he stood over the rest of the lords and ladies. “If it is true, Jon Snow, if the dead are really coming, if the Wall was in danger if we all were to die. I will die serving my country, and I will die serving you.” 

“Aye.” Lyanna Mormont stood up as well, her eyes hard as the silence of the room kept going. “We are of the blood of the First Men, our ancestors built keeps and legacies for us to continue and protect. We have bled, we have fought, and some of us have lost everything but our land. Are we bloody cowards?!”

A murmured ‘no’ left some mouths, and Jon watched the little bear with relief as she continued to speak. At least, at the very least of all, he wouldn’t be alone in making sure these fools stayed alive. 

“Then stop fucking acting like it!” Lyanna scowled again, gesturing to some of the older lords. Lord Glover and Lord Locke, with their beady eyes sharp, had fallen silent as the She-Bear roared in their faces. “We are of the North, we swore to serve our King, and Jon Snow has never given us reason to doubt his word. He is no Stark, but the blood of Eddard, Brandon, and Robb Stark runs through his veins as well. Would we have questioned them? Would we have fallen silent like maids in a brothel?! I think not. So rise up you cowards, rise up, and accept your fate. If the Others come to our homes, to our family and friends, we will go down if we have to. For the North!”

“For the North!” Wylis Manderly raised his sword high in the air, the rest following now that they had no choice.

“For the North!” Ser Davos echoed from his spot in Jon’s left, raising himself to his feet and calling into the crowd. “For the King!”

“The King in the North!” 

“The King in the North!”

“The King in the North!”

Jon watched them silently, jaw set as they continued their chants. From the corner of his eye, while everyone roared their agreements and their promise to end the Long Night, he could see Sansa staring at his side profile again. Each chant felt like a knife to his chest then, the blades a Tully crystal blue. 

❆❆

“Well, you were right.” 

Jon raised his head from the scroll he was reading, his eyes furrowed in confusion as he watched Davos darkening his doorway. Though that was impossible, his chamber was already dark and cold even with the hearth freshly stocked. He had a theory that mayhaps it wasn’t the cold in Winterfell that affected him, but the Lord of Light had taken all of his heat when he brought him back from that abyss. The great thing it did him, now he was facing a famine. 

It had barely been a moon since he spoke to the Northern lords, the meeting sparking a fire in the hearts of many proud northerners. Some had ridden hardback to their homes, promising to send whatever supply they could. Just yesterday the first cart of food had arrived from White Harbor. 

“About?”

Davos let himself in slowly, closing the door behind him. He walked in with a frown, dropping a large scroll on top of Jon’s list of grain and steel. The bright red sigil of House Targaryen stared back at him. “Daenerys Targaryen arrived in Dragonstone a week ago.”

“Shit.” Jon breathed out, unfolding the scroll quickly. Suddenly, he felt hot, hyper-aware of how many furs and layers he was wearing. 

_ Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name and Breaker of Chains, invites you to Dragonstone. Cersei Lannister has spread her poison too far and too great for the realm to keep living, join us, and work to rid Westeros of her. With the alliances of Dorne, the Reach, the Iron Islands, and more, my Queen asks for your presence. Take this opportunity, Jon Snow, winter has come, and you Starks know what comes with it.  _

_ Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen.  _

“Wake up my sister.” Jon dropped the scroll into the table, swallowing heavily as he stared at Tyrion’s message. “Now, Ser Davos, tell Morgan to wake her at once.”

“What will you do?” the old knight whispered into the darkness.

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted, burying his hands into his hair. “I don’t know.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The last part of the chapter takes place a few weeks after the middle part, it's short because really, more words would have ruined the urgency of the whole thing. 
> 
> Hoped you liked it!!

**Author's Note:**

> Oop-
> 
> Lots to unpack here, I know, but I really can't say much so I'll just leave you to your thoughts ;)))


End file.
